


Dropped Soap

by Write_like_an_American



Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Play, Anal Sex, Bottom Yondu, Drug-Induced Sex, Exhibitionism, Extremely Dubious Consent, M/M, Non-Consensual Spanking, Oral Sex, Parent-Child Relationship, Prison Sex, Prostitution, Public Claiming, Public Sex, Rape, Rape to love, Rough Sex, Sex Toys, Size Difference, Size Kink, Spanking, but hey it's fanfic, written with full knowledge that this is Awful
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-16
Updated: 2016-10-03
Packaged: 2018-07-24 09:16:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 26
Words: 63,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7502730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Write_like_an_American/pseuds/Write_like_an_American
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How they got there doesn't matter. What matters is, there's no way out.</p><p>The Kyln is the blemish on Xandar's squeaky-clean reputation, a cesspool where they send their worst prisoners to rot. Enter into this scene of corruption and violence the Ravager Admiral and his pet Terran.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ClassicalTorture](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClassicalTorture/gifts).



> **What started as an excuse for serious size-kink Czardu turned into A Thing with plot.**
> 
> **Anyway.**
> 
> ****
> 
> **Enjoy at your own risk - please read the warnings above. The sex is very much on-the-line regarding consent. It's definitely non-consensual to begin with, but that eases up. If you're uncomfortable with rape-to-mutual-affection plotlines, this is not the fic for you.**
> 
> ****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Fandomwho/ClassicalTorture, who convinced me to shove porn down your throats. Thank her later. ;)

Only drawback to relying on a psionic arrow to fight? When said psionic arrow’s out of range, you’re fucked. Potentially not just in the figurative sense.

But it ain’t himself Yondu’s worried about. It’s the kid. Scarcely fifteen, tall but gangly, with the sort of fresh-faced energy these places love to snatch by the throat and choke. As they’re frogmarched through the cylindrical pipe-and-bolt studded walls of the quadrant’s largest and nastiest prison, Yondu keeps his eyes forwards, chin up, posture firm. He’s made so many enemies that he wouldn’t bet on his chances of getting out of this unscathed. But if he can only convince whatever murdering a-holes they’re sharing the Kyln with that he’s not to be messed with, perhaps they’ll leave Quill outta it…

Fat chance.

At the end of the day Yondu’s a pragmatist. You don’t maintain admiralhood over a band of surly space pirates without stripping yourself of all futile hopes and dreams. And so he assesses his options. It’s big himself up and act like he's the toughest guy here, or grease the kid and leave him on the table with a sign stuck to his freckled pink ass reading ‘free-for-all’.

Or the third alternative. But Yondu’s trying not to think about that.

In front of him Quill glances around, absorbing as much as possible. Yondu wishes he could say it was in the hopes of finding something to facilitate their escape: a loose vent duct, a pipe they could use in a melee, a dropped taser-gun. But he knows the brat’s just curious. New place, new people. In Quill’s mind (which has miraculously retained its naïveté through his seven-year jaunt as a juvenile space pirate) that means new friends. He even attempts to strike up conversation with the guard.

“Hey, buddy. Fun job you got here. Mind being a bit more careful with the merchandi – oof!”

The guard sucker-punches Quill in the gut. He drags him to the strip-and-wash facilities without breaking pace, Quill dangling deadweight in his arms, wheezing like his lungs have forgotten how to suck air.

The guard holding Yondu tightens his grip on his shoulder in case he feels like swooping to Quill’s rescue. “Mighty soft for a Ravager, ain’t he?” Yondu bares his teeth in grudging agreement. His lips draw back even further when the guard delivers his verdict – “Brat won’t survive the week.”

Hell no. Yondu ain’t outliving Quill. That’s a promise he made to himself years ago – the day he found the whingey kid wedged in a vent, beyond the grasp of Horuz’s hungry fingers.

Yondu hadn’t thought much of it at the time. Just stripped off his coat and bulky shoulderpads, wadded ‘em up and lobbed ‘em at Horuz’s head (along with several choice details on what Yondu would do to him if he ever tried to eat the kid again). Then he’d gotten on his hands and knees and set to squeezing his torso into the shaft. Kid had waited until he was thoroughly incapacitated: arms jammed at his sides, face upturned to the feeble light, which streamed through the grill above Quill’s tousled ginger-blonde head. Then, not giving Yondu a chance to begin his ‘it’s okay, Horuz was only jokin’ – well he weren’t, but I’ll kill ‘im if he does that again’ speech, he’d darted forwards and nabbed his headphones from around Yondu’s neck.

Smart little git. Yondu’d confiscated them the week before, thinking the orange foam pads made a nice accessory. Knowing Quill, he’d provoked Horuz for the sole purpose of bringing this situation about. He’d kicked the grill off its hinges and wriggled on through, leaving Yondu to kick and holler, well and truly wedged, until Horuz stopped wringing his hands at his captain’s increasingly wrathful cusses and pulled him to freedom. He’d been too pissed to do more than swear for the next hour. But by the time he found Quill, the rage had siphoned into grudging admiration.

Kid’s first ambush had gone off without a hitch. Perhaps he deserved to keep his stupid music box – at least until he let his guard slip enough that Yondu could steal it back.

That was seven years ago.

The music box now languishes in a pod in the Kyln’s luggage bay. Nowadays, while Yondu’s still impressed with the kid's abilities to pull pranks he’s equally disenchanted by his damn sentimentality, which seems to grow in indirect proportion to Yondu’s attempts to stifle it. Who knows, he thinks as they’re tossed sprawling onto the hard metal floor of the changing room. Perhaps prison’ll do the kid some good. Harden him up. Teach him a few harsh life lessons and the like.

Yondu faces away from Peter, methodically peeling off his grimy leather shell. The guards jeer a bit – it’s to be expected. Once stripped, Yondu stands bare and stoic and lets their words break over him without reaction. The guards notice Quill cringing though. They hone their attentions on the younger of the two.

“You know what they’re going to do to you, fresh meat?” sneers one as he bundles Quill into the delousing room. Peter, dangling by his bicep, mumbles in the negative. His cockiness is fading already. “They’re going to slather you up in jelly and go to town –“

Yondu steps forwards. The second guard lunges to restrain him, catching him before Yondu moves more than a foot. Doesn’t stop him from saying his piece though. “Shut the fuck up,” he growls. Nods to Quill. “You go on ahead, boy. And don’tchu worry. I’mma look out for ya.”

The guard scoffs. “Oh yeah? Without your arrow?”

There ain’t much of an answer to that. Yondu settles on a leer and a scathing glare. Shaking off the chokehold, he slopes after his young ward, the heavy-duty gates of the delousing room clanging closed behind him.

 

* * *

 

All in all, the Kyln’s exactly as he remembers. The same claustrophobic tunnels; the same weaselish guards who’d rather mop up the blood come morning that wade into a fight between inmates. Even the same stinky orange delousing gel.

“Ugh,” mutters Quill, sluicing the dregs down his arms. It’s a sentiment Yondu wholeheartedly echoes. Fluorescent gunge clings to his nostrils, under his nails, in the creases of his palms. They’re supposed to towel off and dress, but the thought of this crud drying on his skin already makes him itch.

“You get any in yer mouth?” the nearest guard barks, gesticulating with a hose. Yondu shakes his head, hoping Peter’s wise enough to copy him. No such luck. The Terran smacks his lips, sticking out his orange-stained tongue and squinting at it cross-eyed.

“I dunno. Kinda hard to tell when it’s squirting you in the face –“

No time to snap a warning. Next moment the guard hauls Quill up under the armpits. He pins him in place with a burly arm across his throat. His assistant wedges the metal hose into his mouth, prising his jaw apart by force. All efforts to escape are futile; Quill’s kicks impact on sturdy shinguards, his punches find only body armour, and he can’t slip the compress of the forearm on his windpipe. His only weapons are inarticulate curses as the guard’s assistant stomps to the faucet. They do fuck-all but waste the little air left in his lungs.

The second guard twists the faucet – only to the first crank, thank the Gods. Anything more would blow Quill’s head off. But the ominous rumble in the pipes make Quill’s eyes bug wide and terrified, almost as comic as his cheeks, which abruptly go from slack to swollen when water fills his mouth with enough force to come spurting out his nose.

The deluge snaps off after mere seconds. That’s more than enough. Quill’s throat works desperately against the control grid internally wired through the guard’s forearm. He swallows as much as he can – better in his stomach than in his lungs. But from the way he’s thrashing, Yondu reckons a fair amount went down that way anyway. Kid’s drowning on dry land, and there’s fuck-all Yondu can do.

He balls his fists but doesn’t move, ignoring Peter’s desperate eyes when they swivel towards him. The Kyln guards might be negligent but they ain’t out-and-out murderers. An incident like this would demand an inquiry – and there’s nothing a corrupt official hates more than paperwork.

Sure enough, the guard drops Quill to his knees. “Swill and spit,” he orders with a wicked grin.

He pounds him between the shoulderblades, helping him dredge a slew of gungey fluid. It gushes from his mouth, splattering the floor. His chin’s not quite as baby-smooth as it used to be; once the main rush has passed, the droplets zigzag through his stubble.

Quill hacks and coughs and gasps. His expression’s tight as an infected wound, mouth spasming between fury and humiliation. Yondu grabs his hand, meaning to haul him to his feet and distract him before he considers retaliation. Quill, sneering, smacks the help away. Or at least, he tries to. Yondu ain’t letting him get himself killed over dumb Terran pride; he glares, grip on Quill’s soggy palm remaining firm. “Don’t do anything stupid, ya damn brat.”

Quill’s attempted aloofness disintegrates. Still, after coughing up the last of the water and wiping his dribbling nose, he smacks Yondu’s shoulder.

“You coulda stopped ‘em,” he growls. “A-hole.” Yondu ain’t gonna deny it. Course he could’ve – if he were at full strength, or backed by a band of asskicking red-coated mercenaries, or just plain ol’ suicidal. But he hadn’t. And because of that, he and Quill might just survive – at least long enough to reach the next circle of this hell.

When the guards, still sniggering, signal for them to continue their journey into the next vestibule, he pushes Quill to walk in front of him, determined to keep him in his line of sight. Kid has to understand. Yeah, Yondu’s made it his mission to get Quill out of this alive – hopefully not at his own expense. But a little tussle like that? It’s scarcely worth the effort of interfering. Practically foreplay compared to what’s coming – of that, Yondu is certain.

Nah, he prefers to save his energy for when the boy _really_ needs him.

 

* * *

 

That time comes sooner rather than later.

Quill throws up a hand to shield his eyes – it’s necessary when entering from the darkness of the shower rooms, compared to which the spotlights beneath the guard tower shine brighter than supernovae. He emerges into the Kyln’s melting pot like a newborn foal: legs quaking beneath him, yellow jumpsuit slimy with coughed-up water.

“Check out the fresh meat!” The cry, origin indiscernible amidst the throng of prisoners crowding the galleries, is taken up and echoed. In seconds they’re engulfed in a cacophony of hoots, wolf-whistles, and loud stamps of feet: the thunderstorm that heralds a stampede.

Quill shrinks in his boots, cringing and angry but all too aware of his vulnerability. The heckling only increases in volume. Then Yondu steps out behind him.

Silence.

Then a hissed “Is that…?”

“Can’t be. Never woulda caught him.”

Yondu doesn’t bother locating the source of the whispers. He treats the gawpers to an indiscriminate glare and swaggers to Quill. He slings an arm around his shoulders, dragging the kid into his side. Brat’s so tense Yondu could mistake his stiffness for rigor mortis. But when Yondu circles his thumb over his arm, a gentle stroke at odds with his fierce expression, he feels the muscles start to loosen. Quill starts to relax, secure that he’s safe and protected.

Yondu just prays he can live up to the boy’s expectations.

“Listen up!” he roars, raising his voice until it echoes off the domed ceiling far above. “This one’s mine! I hear ‘bout any of you good-for-nothin’ shits touchin’ him, I’mma come for you first!”

Unanimously, the prisoners step back from the balustrades. They scurry to avoid his gaze, A’askavarians, Kymellians, and Zundamites alike. For one blissful second Yondu convinces himself that this is feasible, that he doesn’t have to do more than holler to have the whole prison bending over backwards to stay on his good side.

Then a voice speaks up. “Where’s your arrow, little Ravager?”

It’s not one Yondu recognizes from the earlier hollering. Still, it takes him less than a second to pinpoint its origin, and a shorter amount of time still to calculate his odds and find them lacking.

Fuck.

“Czar-Doon,” he says, forcing a jaunty smile. “Didn’t expect to see ya here.”

The big guy – big and green and horrifically familiar, and why didn’t Yondu notice sooner that there was a _Badoon_ among the prisoners’ ranks? – rests his elbows on the flimsy partition between barrier and drop. He’s centred himself along the railings, commandeering the prime position so he can look down on the new Kyln initiates from a vantage.

Yondu quashes the blare of phantom pain from his long-lost fin. He curses his implant – not for the first time – for crippling his psionic abilities. He can’t get a read on this guy. Probably wouldn’t be able to anyway, given he’s a higher life form – but acknowledging _that_ means acknowledging the Badoon as anything other than ravening beasts, and Yondu ain’t too keen on that mode of thinking.

“Really?” Czar-Doon asks. “We ain’t met.”

“Yer reputation precedes you.”

The rest of the prisoners look from one to the other like they’re watching a volley at a tennis match. Yondu, squinting into the bright bleacher lights, keeps Quill tucked into his side. He doesn’t dare push him behind him, although all instincts are urging him to do so. Best to keep the boy in his sightline. He knows he lost his chance at being boss of this place the moment Czar pointed out his lack of a weapon; now the eyes on him and Quill are once again a blur of hunger and hostility.

Option one is thus rendered useless.

Option two – the one involving Quill, a table, and a pot of slick – ain’t worth thinking about.

As for number three: find the biggest, toughest jackass around and find out what he’s willing to trade for Quill’s protection? Seeing as said biggest, toughest jackass is smirking down at him like a goddam king on his throne, Yondu ain’t looking forwards to that negotiation. But right now, it’s all he’s got.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Smut begins chapter 3.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **In which a shower is had, a redshirt is executed, and a deal is struck.**

The Kyln’s showerblock is as ugly and industrial as the rest of the satellite. Grime and mildew cling in equal measure to the grouting, and Yondu has to place each step with care so his bare feet don’t skid from under him. But the water… The water’s something else. It transforms the dingy space into liquid crystal. Orange lamps reflect off the steam like headlights through fog. The other prisoners are shadows, mutated beyond recognition by the billowing mist. Like this, surrounded by intangible silhouettes, Yondu can almost pretend they’re alone. Or better yet: safe.

As if. They’ve been shepherded in among a pack of fifty assorted prisoners. Most remained silent, staying in their huddled posses. They don’t look at him or Peter. They’re not the ones he has to worry about.

But there’re plenty who’ve taken Czar’s question _vis a vis_ Yondu’s arrow as a signal he and Quill are free game. Yondu’s guard is up so high that every time his feet find an irregularity on the floor his heart rate amps a notch. He’s lucky he doesn’t grow hair anywhere except his chin – so he muses as he cuffs Quill’s ear to keep him in line. If he did, it’d be grey before he hit forty.

The light glances in every direction, bouncing from the airborn water particulates and infusing the atmosphere with an incongruously cosy glow. Walking until he feels spray on his skull, Yondu keeps Quill in front of him, the boy reaching out wondering fingers to card the sauna-like clouds. Droplets glitter on their flesh, as if they’re immersed in lukewarm plasma.

It’d be nice, if Yondu didn’t suspect a fair amount of those twisting shadows were stalking through the steam in hopes of stumbling across a young Terran.

“Wash up,” he growls, smacking the Quill on his crown. His hair’s shaggy from the humidity, hanging in his eyes like a dog’s. “Make it fast. Only what’s necessary. I’ll watch yer back.”

“You’re gonna watch me shower? That’s creepy, old man.”

Another smack. This time Quill ducks, windmilling to keep from planting face-first on the filthy floor. His laughter chimes high and sweet. Any other time, Yondu’d answer with a chuckle of his own, irritation ceding to fondness. But he notices a shadow twist in their direction.

“Shaddup,” he hisses, sandwiching a palm over Quill’s mouth. “Now get scrubbin’, or I do it for ya.”

That’s enough of a threat to ensure Quill co-operates. They conduct their wash in silence, Yondu watching the shadow from the corner of his eye. He’s so focused on it that he doesn’t notice the second until a hand clamps on Quill’s shoulder and yanks him into the swirling mists.

 

* * *

 

Yondu dives forwards. He collides with a solid body, sending it sprawling. No time to judge his opponent’s size or cook up an appropriate fight-plan; Yondu finds a face amid the doughy putty of shower-slick fat and lands a punch at its centre.

It’s answered swiftly with a blow to his ribcage. Air and spit explode out of him. Yondu manages to direct most of it into the other guy’s face – which earns him an elbow jammed painfully under his collarbone.

“Hey!” sounds a holler from his right. Yondu instinctively hunches, expecting a blow from fattie’s friends – but none follow. “There’s a fight in the showers! It’s Udonta!”

That draws their fellow prisoners like flies to carrion. Yondu’s opponent’s as naked as he is. He’s not huge as aliens go, but he’s carrying a lot of spare tyre. If Yondu lets him get upright that weight’ll be used against him. Thus, careless of the flaccid cocks squished between their bellies, he digs his knees into the other guy’s thighs to prevent him bucking him, crawls up his body, and jams a thumb in each eye.

No time for sentiment. No time for mercy. The guy’s attempts at socking him disintegrate into agonized flails. He screams, high as a stomped bunny. Yondu grimly shoves his thumbs through the jellied sacs until they hit bone.

His blood-spattered grin fades, as he looks around and realizes that Peter is nowhere to be seen.

Instead, he and the shrieking, blinded hippo lay in a semi-circle of blood and onlookers, who’d been looking forwards to watching the new guy get pummelled through the floor. The former dilutes to pink in the thudding water, washed away even as the man cradles his dripping eye-sockets and sobs. To where, Yondu doesn’t know. The drains are dim-lit and uninviting – but perhaps a potential escape route to explore when he’s returned Quill to his side, where he belongs.

Their audience isn’t so easily disposed of.

Sucking unsatisfyingly humid breaths, Yondu sways to his feet. He cracks his knuckles, glowering around the ring. “Might not have my arrow,” he drawls. “But I can still fuck all y’all up, and don’tchu forget it.” Stepping over the writhing man, he closes on them in deadly lopes. Water and blood streams down his chest, and while he ain’t the biggest fella here, he’s certainly proved he’s among the most willing to draw blood. “Now. Who wants t’tell me where my boy’s got to?”

The prisoners, ignoring their fallen comrade, slant their faces away. They ain’t talking. Time to make this simple.

Yondu does a quick scan for guards – none to be seen. They’ll be watching through the X-Ray cameras above, which scythe through the blanket of steam and expose each vertebrate as a bare cluster of bones. They’re probably waiting for a winner to be determined so they can come scrape the less fortunate participant out of the drainage grills.

Yondu takes another step forwards. He’s gratified when the prisoners retreat. Not nearly as far as he’d like, only a shuffled inch; but given ground is given ground.

“I said,” he repeats, meeting each eye in turn. “Where’s my boy?”

Clap.

Clap.

Clap.

The sound of wet skin slapping. It sets Yondu’s teeth on edge. His lips pull back from his silver-capped teeth. If that’s Quill they’ve got… He’ll butcher every fucker in this place until they riddle him with plasma bolts.

When the culprit reveals himself, he lets out an involuntary sigh. Turns out the clapping was just that. Big green hands smacking each other in mock applause.

“Didn’t yer dam teach ya not to shoot the messenger?” Czar asks, looking down his nose at the burbling body on the floor. “Poor Jovi. I only asked him to fetch the boy for me. Didn’t think you’d react so… Violently. What did ya think we had planned for him?”

He knows exactly what he thought. Yondu smiles, too wide to be friendly. “Your people killed my ‘dam’.”

“Or impregnated her. Don’t forget, _my people_ kept most of your women alive for that purpose.”

Ooh. This guy’s used to bandying words. Unfortunately for him, so’s Yondu. He doesn’t rise to the bait. “Can I call ya ‘daddy’ then?” A faint smirk. Aw. He’s _amused_ him. Yondu’s grin turns wolfish. “If you’ve touched my boy,” he says sweetly, “I’m gonna rip off yer cock, fillet it, and see how many pieces I can stuff up your nose.”

“You consider yourself his father? Interesting.” Czar’s eyes are as green and hard as jade. Yondu meets them with all due fierceness, a viper waiting for his opportune moment to strike. “I ain't never met a Centaurian who adopts. After all, you savages are remarkably fertile. You always got impregnated so quickly when we bred you. I’m surprised that ya hadn’t overrun the galaxy by the time we got around to your culling.” He pauses, tapping a finger to his strong green chin. “Or perhaps it isn’t yer species at all, but the quality of the seed…?”

“Fuck, if that precious spunk of yours is anywhere near as drivellin’ as yer conversation, I’m amazed ya can get it up.”

Witticisms exchanged, they stand at an impasse. Czar’s mouth quirks up again. Yondu longs to give him the Jovi-treatment: hook out those sharp green eyeballs that dare look on him with approval, as if this is all a staged test which Yondu has passed. Enough of the diversions. Quill could be suffering any kind of depravity right about now. 

“Where’s my boy,” he repeats. He lets enough hardness inject his voice that Czar knows it’s the last time he’ll ask politely – ‘ _polite_ ’ for a Ravager meaning 'without the aid of tongue screws or hot pokers'.

Czar only lets him stew a moment longer. Than he gestures into the steam. “Bela. Bring him here.”

A crony appears: a large woman boasting a truly remarkable proboscis. Yondu doesn’t bother checking her out, not even to annoy her. If she’s survived the Kyln under Czar’s charge she’ll have faced worse. But she’s also holding Quill, and that means she has his undivided attention.

“Boy!” he barks. “You alright?”

Quill cranes away from the hand pinning him to the woman’s side. There’s a new bruise blossoming in his eye socket. But he nods. Yondu ain’t surprised – Czar wouldn’t have wanted him injured beyond a token force display, and thus Quill’s safest under his watch than he’d be anywhere else in this damn prison. As usual though, the kid doesn’t know when to shut his mouth. “I didn’t see you in our showergroup,” he pipes, pointing at Czar. “And you got your pants on, while we’re all in our birthday suits. So how’d you get in?”

Czar turns on Yondu. “Feisty, ain’t he?”

Resisting the urge to drop his face into his hands, Yondu settles for a heartfelt: “You got no idea.”

“Well. In answer to your question, young one…” Czar turns from him, carelessly treading on Jovi’s throat as he passes. The blubbering cuts to squawking chokes – then silence. Peter cringes, goggling at the dead body as if he’s never seen one before, then looks up at the man approaching him. His irises are circled in white; the concentric rings hone on his spooked pinprick of a pupil.

“If ya hurt him,” Yondu starts. But Czar waves a spadelike hand.

“Don’t intend to. Not unless he tries somethin’ – but you’re too smart for that, ain’t ya, boy?” So he is. Yondu hopes. “Now, I was granted access to the shower-room because the guards of this place understand and respect a specific fact. One I believe yer, uh, _father_ –“

“Captain,” say Quill and Yondu in synchrony.

“ – Needs to learn, if he wants to stay alive. Can ya guess what that is?”

Bela gives Quill an encouraging poke. Considering her size, it’s more like a battering-ram to the chest. “You’re the boss?” hazards Quill, once he’s stopped wheezing. Czar nods.

“Thas right. I’m glad you an’ me’ve reached an’ understandin’. So let’s make sure yer father–“

“ _Captain!_ ”

“ – Is on the same page. Yondu?”

No way around it. Yondu’s all too aware of his audience. Judging by the absence of splashing from the rest of the showerblock, they’ve been joined by everyone in the place; all straining to hear how the hierarchy will be determined, hoping for another fight.

They’re out of luck. Yondu answers with an easy shrug.

“Yer the boss,” he says.

 

* * *

 

Czar invites them to his room once they’ve finished their shower. Or rather: his cell. But ‘room’ is an apt moniker – it’s kitted out with all the latest tech; waste disposal receptacle that folds out from the wall, holovid projector, even the rare Kyln-luxury of a bed. Single, of course. Not even Czar’s preeminent status could afford him five-star accommodation. But given the rest of ‘em are expected to puppy-pile on the floor, that small rectangle of fabric – and the fact that the man has an entire cubicle to himself – says a lot.

Yondu eyes the furnishings as they enter. They’ve only been summoned so that Czar can satisfy himself with their subordination – but that doesn’t necessitate that that bed won’t be used. Sure, while Czar can count himself as the lone Badoon to have seen the Ravager admiral sans-clothes who hasn’t been eviscerated (yet), he hadn’t given either of ‘em a thorough pawing with his eyes. But in places like these there’s more to sex than desire.

Reclad in their yellow jumpsuits, Yondu and Peter stand before their new leader. “’Sweet crib,” Quill says. Yondu elbows him. “Uh. I mean, you want something, boss?”

Yondu rolls his eyes and takes over. “What he means t’say is we got things t’do, bedspaces to claim, escape plans t’make. Can ya make this quick-like?”

Czar blinks at him, slow and lazy as a predator that knows it’s top of the foodchain. He doesn’t answer the question. Instead, he turns to Bela – who hovers at his shoulder, a silent hook-nosed sentinel. “Take the boy outside.”

“No ya fuckin’ don’t –“

“And protect him with your life,” Czar finishes, at which Yondu’s blustering reproach falls silent. Bela pads forth, hooking Quill by the shoulder. His scared blue eyes follow Yondu as he’s steered out the door.

“That better not have been code for ‘sell him to the highest bidder’,” says Yondu once the door’s ground shut. Czar doesn’t dignify him with a response. The cells are far from hermetically sealed, but Bela’s leading Quill around the balconies, out of earshot, and Czar’s reputation would make any eavesdropper think long and hard about their life choices.

Yondu’s heard the name _Czar-Doon_ be bandied about the stars for decades. From what he can piece together, Czar’s known for being smart, stoic, and utterly ruthless. The adjectives ‘sadistic’ and ‘unjust’ have never factored though. From that Yondu gleans hope. “So,” he says, clapping his hands. He lounges with one shoulder propped on the nearest wall, feigning comfort, well-versed in occupying a space as if it’s his own. “You want something nicked in exchange for protection? A bodyguard? A spy?”

Czar’s stolid gaze doesn’t waver. “You’re useless without your arrow.”

”Now thas just rude. Jovi might say otherwise.”

“Jovi’s dead.”

Yondu spreads his arms. “Provin’ my point!”

“No. I killed him. You merely blinded him.”

Can’t argue there. “I _woulda_ killed him, if ya gave me the chance,” Yondu argues, genuine annoyance breaking through for the first time. “Careful ‘bout what yer insinuating, ya Jolly Green Giant. I ain’t no softie.”

“I don’t doubt it.” Czar maintains the distance between them, loping in an arc that stretches as far as possible without Czar banging his shins on the clutter littering the cell’s cramped floorspace. He stops behind Yondu, forcing him to swivel to keep him in his eyeline – which Yondu does with an exaggerated sigh. “However, your physicality ain’t no different from a Xandarian of your size. And while your skills as a thief are renowned, they ain’t much use to me.” He encompasses his kingdom with a wave and a smirk. “I have everything I want. So – what else do you have to offer?”

Alright. Option three it is. Yondu licks his lips.

“Just so we’re clear,” he says, voice dropping into something more guttural and serious. “Whatever I’m tradin’, it’s for me _and_ the boy.”

Czar shakes his head. “He offers nothing, he gets nothing.”

“Well he ain’t offering you none of what I am!”

A beat of silence, in which Czar’s eyebrows hike up his forehead. Yondu prays he assumes his flush is due to anger. “So you’re imagining that sort of deal,” the Badoon rumbles. And now Yondu _knows_ Czar wasn’t leering in the showerblock, because he sure is now. It’s like he’s being peeled apart at the seams; Czar’s gaze pierces him to the soul he’d long-thought lost. Yondu’s hot cheeks only get hotter. Fingers crossed the cell is too dim for Czar to notice.

“Keep them eyes to yerself, jackass,” he snaps, arms folded and spine stiff. “We ain’t shaken no hands yet.”

“Just want to know what I’m buyin’ into. This sort of trade ain’t my usual area – I prefer consenting partners.” Bullshit. Sure, despite his earlier sounding-off, Czar may well have had no part in the Centaurian genocide. But that doesn’t change the fact of what he is. Czar’s a Badoon: a monsterish thug whose brain functions, high-powered though they might be, revolve around the animalistic drives of sex and war. Yondu refuses to think of him any other way. Humanizing the enemy’s almost as dangerous as humanizing the cargo – look how much trouble _that_ had gotten him into. “But I admit that havin’ the Ravager Admiral spreading his legs for me is a fair thrill.”

Good for him. Thrill’s the exact opposite of what this is for Yondu, whose sneer curdles under Czar’s analysis. He doesn’t object again though. This might be the only chance Quill has.

But whatever conclusion Czar reaches as he looks him over head to toe, it’s unsatisfactory. “How old are you?”

“Bout thirty-five.” No birth certificates on Alpha Centaurii-IV. Any records had been razed by the Badoon marshfires, which’d lit the night sky so bright they blotted out the moons.

Czar thins his eyes at him as if he can see the hatred bubbling below the surface. Then he turns and shakes his head. “You think too highly of yourself. I wouldn’t put my life on the line for you and the boy. Not in exchange for _your_ body.”

Yondu ducks his head, feeling oddly grimy in his fresh jumpsuit. Sure, he knows he’s prostituting himself. But Czar pointing it out is just cruel. Nevertheless, he’s gotta sell this. “You can do whatever the fuck ya like to me, so long as ya keep him outta trouble,” he mutters.

Another of those awful, pregnant pauses. Yondu’s coming to hate them. “…You’d be my bitch if I protected your son? Nothing for yourself?”

“Ya saw what I did to Jovi. I don’t need no coddling.” Yondu answers his flat stare with a glower. “An’ for the last time, fuckface, he ain’t my kid.”

Czar eyes him placidly. “He sure sounds like it.”

As tempting as it is to query what a heartless Badoon knows of _family_ , Yondu keeps his opinions to himself. “Nah. Just my crew. S’only me an’ him in this joint, so of course we gotta stick together.”

“Hm.” Something tells him that Czar’s backing down not because he’s been swayed by Yondu’s argument, but because he’s realized there’s no use in quarrelling, and is laughing at him from within the privacy of his own brain. That makes Yondu mad. And when Yondu’s mad, he does shit he’ll later regret – like this.

“C’mon, you murderin’ Badoon cunt,” he growls, letting every one of his memories of a peaceful pre-war planet seep into his voice, lacing his breath with abhorrence. Stalking to Czar, he jams his hand in his face, demanding the shake that’ll seal the deal. “Yer all exactly the same. Shaggy green shit-talkers. Sure, I ain’t no bird, but a hole’s a hole, right? And your kind like ‘em blue. Either shake and get this over with, or I find someone else who’ll take me up on the offer.”

Czar’s only tell is the surprised flare of his nostrils. He looks down the arm to the short, ugly, flinty-eyed Centaurian at the end of it, whose snarl is one bit yellow to two metal. And he sees how his throat bobs around a gulp. Because he knows as well as Yondu does that if he rejects him, there’s no one else who’ll offer such protection. And once word’s out the Ravager captain is willing to sell his ass for the Terran he lugs around, Yondu’ll be screwed both literally and metaphorically: his reputation shot, his threats meaningless, fight fucked out of him within the week.

Lust doesn’t factor. This is about _status_. And what cements an Alpha-male more firmly in his ranking than fucking another?

Slowly, Czar grips the hand. “I expect you want me to keep this a secret?”

Yes. But Yondu knows better than to ask. And he’s not low enough to beg – not yet. He settles for a shrug. “I’mma kill all y’all suckers once I blow this joint anyway. Don’t see how it matters.”

Czar laughs. Then shuts his mouth on the sound as if it had escaped without permission. “I might not do this regularly, but I know that ain’t something most bitches admit to their new masters.”

Yondu’s smile remains beatific – as beatific as a half-metallic set of teeth can manage. He squeezes Czar’s fingers hard enough to make his jaw tic. “I ain’t most bitches,” he says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Please comment! Any chapter, any time. x**


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **In which calling Yondu a tight-ass is an understatement.**

Czar insists on reaping his reward as soon as possible. Yondu hopes for Bela’s sake that she’s good at entertaining brats – knowing Quill it’ll be sixty questions a minute until the poor woman’s head combusts.

But that reminds him; there’s one clause he forgot to finalize before he made this lil’ shindig official.

“Quill don’t know,” he hisses as Czar pins him facefirst against the wall and digs thick fingers between his legs, hooking out the zipper that curves under Yondu’s crotch. “Quill don’t know ‘bout you and me, ‘bout none of this. Promise me that.”

No answer. Just a short, sharp rasp.

Yondu doesn’t want to shiver as cold air caresses his asscheeks. But he can’t stop himself – especially not after Czar grabs two plump handfuls, grip just shy of bruising, and pulls them apart so he can assess his hole. Holding his ass at a comfortable level for the larger man to squint at means Yondu’s forced up on his toes. His spine contorts, and he clings to the uneven ribbing that crisscrosses the wall, nails scratching pipes and rust and old and ugly weld scars.

“Quill don’t know,” he says again. Czar makes an assessing sound – as if he’s checking a prize breed mare for damage, rather than a sentient person. Nothing Yondu can do about that though. Shutting his eyes, he lets his head hang low and focusses on steadying his breathing as a thumb skids over his perineum.

“Hm,” Czar says.

Next moment that same thumb is presented to his other end. The rustling fabric informs him that Czar has stood. “Suck,” comes the rumble. The digit weighs on the seam of Yondu’s mouth, not forceful but unyielding. His chapped lips part, letting it rest against his teeth, and for a moment – just a moment – Yondu considers biting. That thought’s hastily abandoned.

He thinks of Quill, guided around the complex by Bela’s clawed hand. And with a grudging sigh, he lets the thumb slide in.

It rests on his tongue like the bit of a scold’s bridle. No whistling now, not even if he had a yaka arrow to make it worthwhile. Yondu, remembering the occasional hurried suck-offs from when he was still clawing his way to the top of the Ravager ranks, swirls his tongue around the tip and makes a passable attempt at fellating it. Czar just tuts. He wedges it in until its tip prongs bluntly at Yondu’s uvula. Yondu might have given blowjobs before, but deepthroating ain’t never been a specialty; he has to gulp several times to thwart the instinct to gag, and Czar’s thumb’s so broad, as thick as a moderately endowed man, that Yondu imagines a visible bulge gouging the front of his throat when he swallows.

The join between index and thumb tugs on his lips, Czar’s hand cupping his cheek. He’s inescapable. His size. His breadth. The smell of him – which at this distance is oaken, musky like woodsmoke, evoking memories of the forest a young Centarian had once roamed (then those same forests being shredded by fire). And the accompanying taste: the blandness of unbroken flesh mingling with something tart and unfamiliar.

_Badoon._

The monsters who’d raped and pillaged Yondu’s homeplanet, then turned on its population and enacted much the same.

Sheer luck that Yondu was offworld at the time, having been exiled several years earlier for a list of petty felonies barely worth recalling. Really, he thinks, growling as Czar’s other hand smooths his ass, callouses catching on sensitive skin. In Czar’s mind this must be a return of things to their proper order. Yondu’s only grateful Czar hasn’t seen fit to break him properly: batter on in without prep or lubrication then leave him to bleed out on the cold cell floor.

“Hm,” says Czar again, freeing his thumb with a moist pop. Not the most talkative in the bedroom it seems. He returns it to Yondu’s ass, twizzling over the pucker. The muscle gives beneath the pressure, but not nearly enough to imply regular usage. Frowning, Czar increases the strength behind it. Yondu hisses as his rim dents inwards, hole forced open a scant centimetre.

He clamps a hand over his mouth. But it’s too late. The thumb makes a final press, scooting Yondu’s hips forwards rather than spearing him. A disapproving grunt sounds, followed by the removal of that blazing pressure – Yondu squeezes his eyes tight shut, fighting to keep the sigh inside. “You’re far too tight.”

Simple, matter-of-fact monosyllables. Like he’s failed a test. Like Czar’s losing interest.

Yondu wishes a small part of him weren’t screeching with joy at the prospect. Czar’s desire to fuck him is all that keeps Quill safe. Which means Yondu’s gotta make this good, heedless of how his mind’s shuddering and the muscles in his lower back are wound so taut Czar’d need a goddam speculum to prise him open.

“I can learn,” he gasps, clawing behind himself until he latches onto a thick wrist. He brings Czar’s hands to rest on his buttocks once again, urging him to pull them apart while Yondu sucks on his own finger and guides it to his entrance. “Look. I’mma… I’mma learn for ya.”

…Or perhaps not. So that’s what Czar meant by _tight_.

Yeah, Yondu’s always held it as a matter of pride that he’s never ridden dick. Blowjobs don’t count – that’s practically an extension of giving your bud (or co-pilot, team leader, second-in-command; whatever) a helping hand. But letting ‘em in your ass lays a little close to _showing weakness_ for Yondu to be comfortable with.

He whimpers as he feeds the first index into himself, the sound cracking hoarsely from his chest. It’s uncomfortable, to say the least. He’s an omnivorous bipedal, bog-standard digestive system and anatomy – which means this particular orifice is designed for expulsion. Accepting foreign bodies inside it – even when that foreign body’s just his finger – feels kinda like cramming a sausage in his ear canal: wrong and unnatural, not to mention sore.

Czar clicks his tongue off his teeth when Yondu forces the finger in to the root, jamming another in besides. He doesn’t sound impressed.

“You’ll injure yourself.”

 _Like your mammoth dick ain’t gonna injure me more_. “Had worse.”

“I ain’t touching you if you make yourself incontinent.”

Blunt, brutal, to the point. Yondu can appreciate that. “Sure I can’t just give ya a blowie then?” he asks, with unavailing hope. Czar’s frown twitches into a sneer.

“If you think I’m letting those teeth near my cock –“

“Aw. No trust for little ol’ me?” Somehow, despite the situation – ass speared painfully on two fingers, which together probably equate the girth of Czar’s one, hips already protesting and wrist sore from the uncomfortable angle – Yondu finds it in him to laugh. Never hurts to see the funny side.

Czar doesn’t seem similarly inclined. He grabs Yondu’s arm, wrenching the fingers free – and _that_ lurches a cry from him, because their escape hurts impossibly more than their entrance. “Remember _Ravager_ ,” he snarls. “If anything happens to me, there’ll be no one between your boy and every cock in this place. If this is painful for _you_ , imagine what it’ll be like for him.”

God. Yondu doesn’t even want to contemplate. He smooths his expression, formulating cold unfeelingness in the hopes that his emotions will follow suit.

“Now what?” he asks. Czar crushes his forearm, keeping it bent at an awkward angle behind his back so Yondu’s unable to stand straight or turn. Yondu, refusing to be cowed, glares over his shoulder. For a minute – although it drags to hours in Yondu’s mind – they stare at each other. Then Czar finds something he approves of. Fuck knows what. Perhaps defiant grizzly blue prisoners are his type. Nodding, he releases him and retakes his seat on the cell’s lone bunk.

“A fortnight,” he decrees. “If you can’t take me by then, our deal’s null and void.”

Yondu vacillates between relief that he’s escaped today’s trial and the knowledge that he’s only been given a raincheck. He doesn’t dare shift from his pose: shoved facefirst against the wall. “An’… an’ today? What about today?”

He forces himself to remain still under Czar’s gaze. It sweeps the smooth globes of his ass as if it can burrow through to the pucker nestled between them; the untrained little hole that is as-of-yet so tight as to be impenetrable.

From the bulge in his pants, it ain’t gonna stay that way for long.

Then, after Yondu’s had enough time to work himself into jitters – not that he’d ever call them that – Czar nods at the door. “You can get outta my cell for a start. Send Bela in once you’ve taken over babysittin’ duty. Thanks to your frigid ass, I got one hell of a stiffie to deal with.”

It’s true. There’s a leviathan tenting the front of Czar’s jumpsuit, and Yondu can’t shake thought of it squelching to rest inside him, filling him like a hand in a puppet. He feels a twinge of guilt for foisting his fuck onto the next bitch along, but doesn’t bother to maintain it.

Better Bela than him.

He locates the cold zipper, which taps against his tailbone when he breathes. Wouldn’t do to go wandering out into the hall with his bare ass on show. Not unless he wants Czar’s prescribed stretching to happen on another’s terms. His fingers tremble. Leftover adrenaline, that’s all; Yondu doesn’t _do_ fear, just like he doesn’t do shame or embarrassment or any of those other pointless sentiments that a lesser man might be quailing beneath right about now. But whatever the cause, he’s shaking too hard to get a grip. After Yondu’s third aborted attempt to right himself – and smirking at the florid cusses – Czar decides it’s in his best interests to help.

He must be nurturing a pair of balls about the same shade as Yondu’s face. Heck, he probably just wants to hurry him up so he can fuck Bela in peace. But his hands are oddly gentle, where they close over Yondu’s and ease them away. He zips him up slowly, blue flesh vanishing millimetre by millimetre. The weight of his palm on Yondu’s lower back is an anchor and a ball and chain: at once steadying and incarcerating, reminding him of his place.

“Okay,” he mumbles. “Okay. Fortnight. Me, you, fucking.”

“Here’s a hint.” Czar pinches his chin between spit-wet fingers, making Yondu face him. Then, ignoring Yondu’s kneejerk growl – and the grudging relaxation that follows, as he realizes he ain't got no choice – Czar ducks to kiss him. It’s only a short peck. Yondu keeps his eyes open and his mouth shut, pretending not to notice the stroke of a tongue over his lips. “Don’t make it sound like you’ve been sentenced to the gallows. Yer supposed to be stoking my ego, not deflating it.”

Yondu glances at the hard prick jutting between them, its thick form barely obscured by the flimsy cloth. He fights the urge to lick his tingling lips. “Don’t look like it needs much stokin’.”

And there’s that laugh again. It’d be pleasant, Yondu decides, if it didn’t belong to a Badoon. “A fortnight,” Czar says, patting his stubbled cheek with the fondness with which one might touch a troublesome pet. “Then you’ll take this meat like you were made for it.”

“How could I forget?”

Czar’s answer to his drawl is, of course, to wrap Yondu’s fingers around his length through the fabric. Yeah. That’ll boost Yondu’s memory. Girth like that? Knobbled head? Ridges running up and down the shaft – because Czar forces him to enact a languid fondle, fingertips registering the thrumming pulse beneath the surface? Forget a fortnight; he wouldn’t fit that if he trained for a _decade_.

But it’s Quill’s life that’s on the line. Yondu can put up with any indignity, any discomfort, so long as Quill keeps it.

Thus he bears the handful of cock a whole five seconds, then scowls and lurches away, wiping his palm on his pantleg as if he’s rubbing away the thought of Czar’s precum, trapped beneath sticky cotton.

“Fortnight,” he agrees. “Don’t think I don’t hate ya though.”

Czar’s smile is all teeth. “Oh, little Ravager,” he says. Yondu squirms; that nickname’s gonna get old real fast. “I wouldn’t expect anything less.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **You guys know how much I adore comments! Leave me some, would you? :D**
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> **Also, to anyone who hasn't yet found it - check out my tumblr blog! I'm running ask-a-ravager as well as working full-time, so please excuse the slow updates on my fic... x**
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> ****


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **In which tools are acquired.**

There’s three people you need to know in prison. There’s the Boss – they’ve already found him. Then there’s the Snitch – pretty self-explanatory. And then? Then there’s the Hawker.

Yondu identifies her the next day as he’s gobbling breakfast. Czar’s put out the word that he and Quill are to be left alone, and Yondu already notices the difference; the inmates move around him warily, like they’re afraid of getting a mark on their report card. Or (more likely) getting punched through the nearest buttress by a massive green fist.

Quill, as ever, seems blissfully ignorant. Yondu envies him that. While other goons place bets on what Czar’s getting out of Yondu in return (“Information?” “Nah, sex. It’s gotta be sex.” “I reckon he wants him t’nick somethin’ big off the guards…” “Don’t be stupid; guy can get whatever he wants anyways.”) Quill scoops his grits into his mouth one dollop at a time, then turns to give Bela a jaunty wave. She returns it – albeit after a pause. Yondu squints at Quill.

“You tryin’ t’tap that or somethin’, boy?” He should’ve specified to Czar that the clause of _no one touches the boy_ extends to him and his subordinates. Sure, Yondu’d been fucking around at fifteen, but in his mind, Quill’s more immature than he ever was. But Quill snorts a negative.

“Get your mind out the gutter, boss. Bela’s cool. Ain’t I allowed to have friends besides you?” Course Quill’d be off making new pals while Yondu’s contemplating how to go about wedging his ass wide enough to painlessly fit a cock. Lucky lil shit. Yondu flicks his ear and shunts his empty bowl over, motioning for Quill to carry both to the precarious towers in the corner, besides which the inmates who’ve been allocated kitchen duties diligently scrub. The crowds peel apart for him then fold in behind. No one dares touch him, not even for a grope, and Quill practically skips through their ranks shooting sunny smiles to every side.

The sight makes something warm spill in Yondu’s chest. For a second he thinks he’s sprung an internal leak and is about to haemorrhage messily all over the table. But what wells up his throat isn’t arterial blood, but happiness.

Quill’s gonna be okay. So long as that remains true, Yondu can handle anything.

With that in mind, he starts looking around, scoping his surroundings. There’s a cluster of prisoners around the food table, haggling over the last oatcake. Another bunch are getting uppity with a guard; they’ll wind up tasered and lugged away to isolation before the shift’s through. Then there’s the pair watching Xandarian soaps on a wireset they must’ve brought from the commissary, the tentacular loner in the corner who shrinks from all who pass him by, and – there! On the opposite side of the hall, an exchange occurs.

It would pass unnoticed to an untrained eye. Yondu’s are anything but.

He watches the man drop the paper packet on the table and walk away, shoulders hunched as if he’s expecting a cry from the guards and the impact of a stun baton. Then a woman saunters by, casual as you like. She’s a curvy Xandarian. Very curvy. Bordering hippopotamine – prison food must be fattening; Yondu’d better start watching his waistline. Her saffron skin clashes with her jumpsuit, and ruddy amber hair wreathes her head like fire from a Catherine Wheel.

She dips her hand into the bag. Moving with a delicacy belied by her size, she manages to slot the plump appendage in gently enough to avoid noisy crinkles. She feels whatever lays within, nods to herself, and waddles away, aiming for a cell in the high galleries of the prison. That cell is guarded by an ugly raisin-faced creature from the outer worlds: the sort of fella you’d expect to see bouncing outside a casino, or a strip-club. Or a room where debts are made and paid – sometimes at the cost of eyes, fingers, and other such well-loved bodily parts.

Payment accepted.

Yondu turns to watch the man, who none-too-subtly peers over one shoulder to gauge her reaction. When he sees her retreat he sighs like an erupting geyser and hurries after her, their bodies soon lost behind the breakfast queue that extends across the floor of the panopticon and up its winding spiral stairs.

There’s his cat.

Yondu shunts his chair back – remembering at the last moment he’s on an immovable bench, nailed to the floor so it can’t be used as a weapon, and saving himself from toppling ass-over-head. He takes the stairs two at a time.

 

* * *

 

“You want a what?”

“Don’t gimme that look. Bet folks ask for weirder shit.”

“That they do. But ‘folks’ ain’t usually Ravager Admirals.”

Yondu frowns. “Hey. Full confidentiality, remember? Ya wanna tarnish yer good name?” Her shake of the head still manages to look incredulous. Yondu props his hands on his hips. He doesn’t care. Let her think what she wants. “Les talk business then. How soon can ya get me a decent set?”

“Depends what yer offerin’.” She relents under his glare. “Alright. I have one in storage.” Hoping this ‘storage’ is a sterile medbay rather than a cubby under a floorboard that’s packed with rat droppings as well as loot, would be wishful thinking. Oh well. Yondu’s immune system’s been immersed in a grotty and unhygienic galaxy since the tender age of sixteen; it’ll take whatever microorganisms might’ve made their home on an adjustable multi-girth silicone buttplug. “Lemme guess – you want to take Czar?”

No sense lying. “Bing-bing, jackpot. Boy’s hung, so I gotta make this easier on myself.”

She doesn’t seem disgusted, or gleeful at the revelation of potential blackmail material. That’s good. The pity in her eyes though? Yondu don’t like that at all. “You’ll need lubrication too. And lots of it.”

“How much for the lot then?”

She names a price; he laughs in her face. She names a more sensible one; he whittles her down further. They back-and-forth until they’re settled on a sum that doesn’t make either of them bust a vein, and then the deal is done.

All but for one thing. Yondu doesn’t actually have any huffer cigarettes: the usual mode of prison currency. He blows the girl a kiss, which she doesn’t return, and scampers for Czar’s room. “Be back in five. Don’tchu sell them plugs woman, or I’mma smoke every one of these in front of ya and spoil yer appetite.” Her parting snort follows him up the stairs.

Czar’s acting as magistrate for a dispute when Yondu enters. There’s a scrawny Shi’ar accusing another of theft, and Czar looks as if his boredom has grown in accordance to every decibel-increase in their volume. When he sees Yondu, he actually looks pleased – as if surprised he’s come back. “This isn’t a fortnight,” he says, cutting through the hurling of invectives aimed at the two men’s mothers. Yondu gives him a cheery wave.

“Hey, don’t’chu mind me. Geddon with yer business; I’m a fly on the wall.”

“Hm.” Czar assesses his petitioners with the level gaze of one who's adept at navigating scuffles in the lower ranks. From how he cracks his neck from side to side, he’s just deemed them unworthy of his attention. “Run along, you two. Next time you fight, I kill you both.”

That’s enough for them. They scarper. Yondu loiters in the bed alcove as they push for the doorway, then casually repositions himself as far from Czar as he can get. “So,” he begins when it becomes apparent Czar’s waiting for him to state his business. “If ya wanna fuck me, I need some ciggies to buy a stretcher.”

Czar frowns, unimpressed. “I’m starting to think fucking you is more effort than it’s worth.”

“Hey, ya want it done properly or what? You’re the one that don’t want blood and shit on yer dick.”

“And _you_ can sit on your fingers like a normal person.” The retort swarms out of Yondu’s gullet before he can stop it, but he at least twists to one side so he mumbles it into his neck, the words muffled by his collar. “What was that?” Czar asks.

“I _said_ , can’t walk around with them stuffed inside me, can I? If ya want me ready in two weeks, I’mma have to do this intense-like.”

Czar’s pupils dilate. _Shit_ , Yondu thinks, furiously glaring at his soft prison shoes. _I’mma get fucked right here an’ now; shit, shit, shit…_ But Czar only lifts from his chair and stalks over, green muscle rippling under his uniform.

“You will let me put them in you,” he says, easily broaching Yondu’s personal space as he backs him against the door. Catching Yondu’s glance towards the opening mechanism, he meaningfully boxes him in with his arms and walks the both of them to stand where Yondu’s shoulderblades bang on a stabler surface. “You will let me take them out of you. You will wear them when and as I say – to prevent you hurting yourself, of course. I ain’t gonna let you ruin that nice tight ass just because of my impatience.”

“You think my ass is nice?” Yondu manages. Scoffing, Czar withdraws. His absence draws chilled air from the room’s oxy-generator; Yondu shivers, and tries to convince himself the temperature change is the only reason.

Meanwhile Czar tips his head in that curious examining way of his. This time it doesn’t make Yondu feel like a piece of meat on the butcher’s slab. Rather, Czar’s assessing him like he’s trying to piece together a complex puzzle. His expression’s untrusting, certainly, but it’s not entirely hostile. Neither is it sadistic. There’s no empathy to manipulate – or if there is, it’s well hidden. But there’s no yearning to cause harm either. And – let’s be honest – he’s kinda a stud. Yondu could’ve chosen worse.

“Turn away,” he eventually orders. That’s enough to make Yondu tense up again.

“Why?”

Another of those frustrated little noises, air forced out Czar’s nose so fast it catches on his vocal chords. “I already told you; I ain’t fucking you til you’re nice and loose. Now turn. Away.”

Still mistrustful, Yondu does so. He counts the irregularities in the metal grain of the door as he hears Czar undo a hatch somewhere in his cell. Next moment, he’s being spun by a warm green hand. His palm is opened, and a handful of smokes deposited within it. “There,” comes Czar’s gruff answer. “That’d better be enough; I ain’t giving you no more.”

Yondu counts them. It is, and more than – although he ain’t gonna volunteer that last bit of information. “Good guess,” he says, keeping his face neutral. But Czar’s too smart for that. He catches Yondu’s bicep before he can waltz out the door, fishing the cigarettes from his fist and waving them before his nose.

“I expect change. And I’ll be askin’ the Hawker how much she charged next time I see her.” Dammit. Yondu flashes a smile that would be saccharine on anyone with better dental hygiene.

“So untrustin’.”

“Says the man who thought I’d rape him the moment he turned his back.”

There’s no answer to that. Even Czar looks surprised at what he’s just said. Snarling, Yondu snatches back the rolled-up, crumpled huffer-sticks. “Fuck you,” is his not-so-clever rejoinder. While these doors aren’t slammable, he punches the shut button extra hard as he storms out, which amounts to much the same thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Yo yo leave me comments**
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> **Next chappie is (surprise surprise) porn again**
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> ****


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Filthyfilthyfilth**

Only problem is, not five minutes later he has to storm back in again. Yondu’d like to dither longer, but he ain’t got other plans for the morning. If Czar means to seat him on that monstrous cock of his by the end of the second week, Yondu’s gotta get to work. And that means letting Czar watch as he pops the cap on the lube tube the Hawker’s acquired for him, and slathers the flared shaft in slippery juice.

‘Shaft’ is somewhat ambitious. It’s on its lowest setting, the approximate breadth and length of his ring finger. It looks ridiculously small, compared to the erection Yondu’d stroked through Czar’s prison garb as they made their deal the night before. But he remembers the pain of forcing two fingers up there. His ass still felt tender this morning – although that was probably just trepidation. Kinda like how it’s twinging now.

Yondu, stripped naked and very aware of the dusty window over his shoulder – thank fuck the bed’s positioned under it; any peeping tom would have to crane right over to see him, and Czar’d spot them before they had the chance to ogle – kicks apart his legs and nervously steers his soft cock to one side.

Well. Not soft _entirely_. There’s a lil’ chub gathering. Fuck knows why; it ain’t as if he gets off on the thought of wedging a piece of lifeless silicone up where the sun don’t shine. Or a much larger rod of green flesh and blood, for that matter.

Swallowing, Yondu adds his half-mast dick to the tally of things he hopes Czar won’t notice. He drags the sticky toy over his perineum, squirming as the nerve endings report their traitorous enjoyment. Czar’s eyes are locked between his legs, relishing their tense twitches as Yondu struggles to grip the plug’s bottom, position it, and keep his thighs wide enough that Czar can watch the proceedings. When he rubs the pucker with the toy’s tip he feels it start to unfurl, tight skin spreading like the petals on a tiny navy flower. He lets out another of those ridiculous animal whines that have no place coming from his throat. Czar’s gaze snaps to his face.

“More lube,” he mutters, grabbing the tube from the table. “Put it inside directly. Here –“ Crossing towards him – Yondu squeezes his eyes tight so he doesn’t have to acknowledge the growing evidence that Czar’s enjoying this – he eases Yondu’s shaking hands out the way, letting him deposit the plug on the bed for the time being. “Like this.” He smears a dob on his smallest finger. Next instant that finger’s tickling at his entrance, nail flicking lightly on the rim.

Yondu gasps, arcing towards the light sensation. Sure, he knows there’s a spot inside most male species that makes ‘em cum like a switch, but he never realized the outside of his ass could act as an erogenous zone. Under Czar’s hungry stare, with his huge hands holding Yondu’s legs hip-achingly wide, that’s exactly what it’s become. His entire body feels erotic and vulnerable, every last scarred and sturdy blue inch. Czar’s finger is a lit match stirring the leaves at the bottom of a bonfire, dry and crackling and ready to burst into flames.

That finger finally eases the tight ring open far enough that it can wriggle the very tip inside. Yondu, cock now bouncing above his belly, makes a noise of a pitch he didn’t know he could reach when it’s replaced with a slim black plug.

Czar doesn’t push the plug all the way, not at first. He evidently knows the importance of slowness in anal training; the plug gets halfway into Yondu before he clamps up, jaw clacking with the force of not making a noise. Sighing, Czar makes to stand. Yondu hooks his ankles over brawny shoulders, bare toes digging through the prison uniform which Czar’s stripped from Yondu while retaining for himself. “Sorry,” he gasps, once sure he can control his voice. It’s still despicably hitchy, jerking about the octaves worse than it did during puberty. But at least it doesn’t sound as turned on as he feels. “Gimme a sec, just a sec… Don’t go, I can do it!”

Czar’s big enough to gather his ankles in a single broad hand. Rather than walking away, as Yondu had feared, he reaches for the lube tube again. He holds Yondu like that with his feet high in the air, grinding his anklebones together in the rough calloused vice of his fist. With Czar’s height and reach, it’s a simple matter to hold Yondu’s legs up straight while Czar kneels on the floor, tugging the base of the plug until it’s freed.

It slides from Yondu’s body in increments as agonizing as they’re pleasurable. Yondu, chest heaving, one hand dropped over his eyes while the other grazes dangerously close to his prick, sucks a noisy inhale when he feels the familiar blunt tip of Czar’s nail. He dabbles more lube over him and gives the toy another coat. With his legs up straight his asscheeks clench of their own accord. Lube smears between them, viscous and wet. Yondu moans when Czar digs the toy’s tip into his hole for the second time and eases it home, all the way, a relentless push that slows when Yondu’s muscles flex in discomfort but never ceases, until the base snugs to his rim with a _pop._

Czar lets Yondu’s legs flop down to the mattress. They land open, Yondu rocking his hips in curious wonder at the sensation of a plug rolling in his ass. That sensation magnifies tenfold when Czar taps its flat base, sending vibrations thrumming into his channel.

Yondu has to say something to stop himself making anymore stupid noises.

“Bet I’m the first Centaurian who’s enjoyed sleepin’ with ya,” he gasps, the arm over his eyes preventing him from catching Czar’s reaction. “Y’know, for a monster, you ain’t half bad.” That does… something. All contact is revoked. Yondu lifts his arm, cracking an eye. “Aw. I offend ya, big guy?” The weight in his ass is unfamiliar yet undeniably satisfying; Yondu presses his pelvis into the pallet, arching and rocking so his stiff cock bats off his thighs. “Don’t be so sensitive. Facts’re facts. I’m yer prison bitch. You’re an evil shitstain that don’t deserve to walk the starways. We all gotta live with the hands we’re played.”

It is, in Yondu’s opinion, no worse than the abuse they’d tossed at each other when they were testing each other’s verbal limits in the showers. In fact, he considers it a sage piece of life-advice. Which is why the sudden rough tug that hauls him to his feet comes as a shock. Yondu yelps as the plug jolts. “Ow! Aw fuck, _what?_ ”

“I can be a monster,” Czar growls. Yondu, taking stock of his features for the first time since he opened his mouth – his damn stupid fool mouth; how can he lecture Peter about keeping his trap shut when goes spouting off nonsense like this? – tries to step back. But his mobility’s encumbered by the throb of the plug. His knees buckle. He winds up sitting on the bed, legs tucked up and hands at the ready to defend himself should Czar turn this into an out and out brawl.

But then the wrath recedes from Czar’s face. “You wouldn’t like me if I was a monster,” he says, to the open air above Yondu’s head. Yondu digs a finger in his ear, uncertain if he heard correctly.

“I don’t like ya anyway.”

Those green eyes snap back to him. And – oh – _there’s_ the fury. “I wasn’t talking to you.”

Great. He’s loco as well as powerful. Just what the galaxy needs; another mad giant. Yondu raises his hands, looking to placate. He’s suddenly aware of just how small he is in comparison. And how Czar’s standing over him fully clothed while he’s butt-naked and plugged, of course. “Alright, big guy. Yer imaginary friends wouldn’t like ya if yer mean to me. Best do what the voices want, right? Unless they start tellin’ ya t’kill everyone, in which case ya should bump off as many guards as ya can before gettin’ yer ass shot, and clear me an’ Quill a path outta this place…”

Czar puts a stride-length between them, turning his back. “Shut up,” he says woodenly. Yondu, suspecting his presence is no longer welcome, slithers off the bed and darts across the floor to retrieve his uniform – ‘darts’ being more a waddle. Between his hard-on and the fact that he’s still acclimatizing to having something up his ass, he doubts he’ll be running for some time. Czar watches him dress from the corner of his eye, taking note of the freezes and shudders as the plug grazes new places inside of him. “The next will be more intense. Return here in two hours and I’ll remove this one.”

“Two hours?” Yondu breaks his unspoken promise of silence, zipping his jumpsuit to his collar and glowering down at the tented erection as if it’ll wilt from the force of his obstinacy. ”I’m movin’ onto the next in _two hours_? Thassa damn fast upgrade. Buy me dinner first.” Big words from someone who’s already had their partner’s fingers delving in and out of them.

“You will have a night to recuperate.” Czar’s still focussed on that middle distance; far away from Yondu and long ago. But Yondu doesn’t care about that. Czar’s a Badoon. So what if he’s lost people too? It’s more than deserved. “Now, go play with your son.”

Yondu steps over the threshold, after a quick peek through the window reassures him Czar’s balcony is clear. Not too far to the nearest bathroom, where he can jerk off in peace. “I ain’t his father, I’m his captain,” he protests, for what seems like the thousandth time. But the door whooshes closed before he can finish the sentence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **The sex scenes only increase in intensity from here... ;)**


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Oh no more porn**

Those two hours pass fast. Yondu’s expecting them to be torturous. But he soon discovers how to hold himself so the plug’s less a constant distraction and more a gentle tease, barely noticeable until he moves. Yes, he thinks, breaking into a smile when he spies Quill teaching Bela one of his Terran card games – the one where you hit each other and yell _Snap_ , Yondu’s favourite. This’s gonna be a cakewalk. Why was he ever worried?

Spotting him, Quill breaks from their match to give an enthusiastic wave. Bela smacks the pile, proclaiming “Snap!” with an enthusiasm that doesn’t sound completely feigned, and budges over to make room on the bench.

“You okay?” she asks in her usual dour monotone. Yondu, giving Peter’s hair a greeting ruffle, picks up a third set of cards and flashes her a winning grin.

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

 

* * *

 

The answer to that comes post-dinner. “Go to the bathroom,” murmurs Czar, as he passes him. He hadn’t offered his assistance when Yondu returned to have the plug removed; just stretched back in his chair, fingers steepled over his core, and watched until Yondu got tired of waiting and plucked it out solo.

Yondu, carrying his empty tray to the pile, shoots Czar an arch look. “Not the best come on. Nought outta ten fer effort –“

“Trust me. The next will be more difficult.”

 _Trust you?_ Yondu’s about to spit. Then he realizes what Czar’s saying and dumps his tray with a clatter that’s louder than he imagined it in his head. “Go take a shit, ya mean?”

Czar’s presence ensures a large enough circle has been cleared around them none but those with enhanced hearing will be able to hear the whispered conversation. Czar shrugs. “I’ll get you an enema at some point. That’ll make it easier.”

“’At some point’? We ain’t goin’ slow and steady, friend. You get me until I get free, then I kill you an’ every other jackass who’s ever looked at my boy wrong...”

Czar blinks. Then continues at normal volume. “I ain’t ever looked at your boy. Not for the reasons I look at you.”

It’s true. It’s also said loud enough to gain the attention of more than one nosy prisoner, who have gathered as close to the edge of Czar’s self-imposed bubble as they can get without risking a dislocated neck. Hissing, Yondu smacks Czar’s chest. He doesn’t think about it. It’s just a snap-second reaction, one of those he’d be able to get away with if he was still a captain with an arrow in his belt.

That time is over. Silence spreads across the crowd like an epidemic on fast forward. Yondu stares at his open palm as if it’s disobeyed his orders. “Uh,” he says.

Czar’s eyebrows furrow the bridge of his nose. He isn’t like Yondu. He doesn’t attack without thinking. Instead, as Quill tries to fight his way between him but is held back by the easy instalment of Bela’s hand on his shoulder, he looks down on Yondu and recognizes shock and instant regret.

Rather than a blow, the next time he touches him it’s to steer him towards the bathroom. “Go,” he says, voice quiet and dangerous as a far-off thunderstorm. “And don’t ever do that again.”

Anyone else and Yondu’d laugh in their face. He’d tell ‘em he did as he pleased and there was fuck all they could do to stop him. Now though, he appreciates the necessities of self-preservation. He ducks his head to his chest and walks as bidden.

 

* * *

 

He dubs the buttplug’s second setting as ‘carrot’. That’s after a Terran vegetable – or its lookalike – that Quill once found on a market stall and insisted they all try. The plug, being a matt black that stands out against his electric blue skin when it’s pushed to its base, isn’t nearly orange enough. But Yondu supposes he’s grateful for that. It’d clash terribly otherwise.

“This you wear until you are ready to sleep,” comes Czar’s throaty purr from behind him. Yondu, bent over the chair, flinches when a large hand compresses his ass, squeezing the cheeks and giving him the thoroughest grope of his life. It finishes with two hard pats to the plug, which have Yondu rocking over the leather seat. Getting up twice in a row ain’t an everyday occurrence anymore; Yondu’s young but he’s not _teenager_ -young. But with Czar’s  twizzling the plug around inside him like he’s looking to stir a Centaurian-flavoured cocktail, Yondu’s raring to go.

Not all the way though. Hell no. He’s no way near ready yet; the events of the past hour confirm it.

This plug had, as Czar promised, been harder than the first. “You need to relax,” Czar had told him, kneading his taut spine. Yondu had tried, he really had. But with six hours of recuperation following the removal of the first plug, he was virgin-tight again and the nudge of a shaft against his hole made him whine in discomfort.

Again, Czar had only slotted it in halfway to begin with. He’d propped fingers on Yondu’s straining rim and stretched it gently from the outside, until it swallowed the plug to its widest point. He left it there, two inches dangling from Yondu’s body like a deformed tail, and stroked his back until he adjusted and the quivers ceased.

Yondu, fists hard knots where they lay squashed between his chest and the chair seat, scowled to himself. Where did Czar get off, treating him like some pet to be tamed? But regardless of his thoughts on the matter, the soothing worked. Czar was able to tug the plug out with a soft pop, Yondu’s hole gaping just wide enough to reveal his tender navy internals. Yondu, shuddering at the cool air lathing inside his body, sighed in relief when the plug was repositioned.

Fuck Czar for making his body so conflicted. Yondu at once hates the intrustion and relishes it, as if he's already unable to bear being left empty, unfilled. He ain’t just being trained to take Czar’s cock. He realizes that now. He’s being manipulated into _needing_ it; a slut desperate for their next dicking. Already he can feel his body settling around the plastic rod, melding to its shape. The elastic muscle has been tugged beyond its usual parameters, and Yondu wonders how he’s supposed to last the night without anything stuffing his rectum.

“Good?” Czar has the audacity to ask. Yondu plants his feet on the floor and pushes up, not fast enough to dislodge the palm now rubbing soft circles around his distended rim.

“Peachy,” he gasps – to which Czar answers with a firm swat, bouncing Yondu forwards over the chair. His breath catches in his throat. “Ah – ah, fuck –“

“You like that?”

“I don’t… I dunno…” Yes. Yes he does.

The imprint of Czar’s hand feels sweltering. Yondu imagines blisters bubbling below the surface as the next five smacks land, cracking flesh echoing out along the corridor. He walks out now, those who share the cells to either side will bear no illusions about what he’s just had done to him. Especially as Yondu’ll most likely be limping. He thinks of his ass, swollen navy from where Czar’s spanking has raised blood to the surface. And of the plug base, visible only if you pull his cheeks apart: a smooth black coin that proclaims to the world that he’s in training to be fucked.

That coin is exactly where Czar lands his final hit. Yondu _wails_ , plug jolting impossibly deeper. Then chokes on his gasp. His muscles spasm and drool flecks his lips as the impact scrapes the plug over something inside him: something electrifying and wicked that sends a lightning bolt careering up his spine.

 

* * *

 

Yondu’s eyes open gradually, like a man waking from deep sleep. Did he black out a moment? Must’ve done. He shifts tentatively over the leather, grimacing as his cock tacks to the sweat-slicked material.

Ain’t often he can’t remember cumming. But cum he definitely did – and like he’s never done before. Pleasure infuses every extremity, robbing him of any residual tension. He ain’t no stranger to post-orgasm bonelessness. But this… This is something different.

Yondu pushes onto his elbows, moving tentative and slow. He’s alone. Still draped over the chair, still naked, still with his inner thighs drenched in jizz and lube. There’s a blanket draped over him, but not much else besides. Czar must have better things to do than nurse his unconscious fucktoy. Hey – no skin off Yondu’s nose. Shrugging, he swings his legs around to perch on the seat. It’s somewhat too high for him; his toes don’t brush the ground. A noise cracks from his throat as the plug’s agitated. Yondu has to pinch himself to resist the urge to grind down on it and work his way towards the third peak of the day.

He can’t let himself become a slave to this pleasure. He ain’t doing this for himself, after all. Sure, Czar’s shown him a surprisingly good time – but Yondu doesn’t want him to think his enjoyment is anything other than coerced. Imagine if the big guy came in to find him rubbing himself off on his territory, getting his scent and seed all over the throne from which Czar overlooks his grubby kingdom?

Yondu gnaws his lip. Yeah, the idea of straddling Czar while he lounges on this chair shouldn’t be so hot. He’s gotta start shooing thoughts like that. If he doesn’t, he’s only gonna indulge in them, and that’s a slippery slope towards liking what Czar does to him.

Yondu knows all about Stockholme Syndrome. Heck, he’s practically nurtured his own example with Quill. But if there’s one thing that’s certain, it’s that Yondu ain’t no feeble Terran kid. He can withstand this long enough to get him and Quill to safety. All he’s gotta do is endure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Leave a comment if you enjoyed~ :3**
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> **I promise I'll get back to more plot-heavy stuff soon. Although there is an Actual Plot to this thing, which will soon come into swing...**
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> ****


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Have some plot with your porn.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Massive thanks to everyone who's been leaving me lovely messages~ You all brighten my inbox so much.**

Yondu ain’t stupid enough to limp out the door. Not without checking no one’s currently ambling along the walkway outside. Sure, Czar’s set up his encampment on top-deck, meaning the surrounds are uninhabited bar those who’ve sworn loyalty to him. Yondu bets that Czar’s goons worked out their boss’s plans for him the moment he ordered him and Quill to move in with Bela permanently. Running into one of them after a session would be mortifying, but they’re already on his hitlist. There’s no point rigging another black tally against them; once he’s got his arrow back online, it ain’t as if he’ll waste time shooting them twice.

Yeah, Yondu thinks, as he squints left and right through the convex slab of glass above Czar’s bed. This is a cosy lil’ roost. Czar’s done well to establish himself at the prow of it, for a man who’s been a jailbird less than a year.

Yondu doesn’t know the exact dates. He’s relying on rumor and hearsay – and Peter, who’s somehow wormed his way into Bela’s stony affections and is granted the occasional honor of having one of his questions answered. If the kid were a better interrogator, Yondu would have him quiz Bela on everything he needs for a solid escape plan: rotations of the guards, where food stocks come from and when they arrive, how the air circulates and where the shower water drains to. But he can’t trust Quill to pose his queries casually enough to avoid suspicion. The moment the brat opens his mouth, Bela will go running to Czar. And _poof,_ there goes whatever meager kernels of trust have begun to sprout between them.

Nah. If Yondu plans on getting outta here – which he does – he’s gotta bide his time. Now Czar’s accepted his proposal, Yondu’s got plenty of it. Two weeks at least. After which point he could very well fail the ultimate test and be tossed to the dogs, Quill alongside him… But it’s best not to consider that outcome. Especially since his training’s gone well thus far.

Once sure no one lurks in the shadows off either side of Czar’s entrance-alcove, Yondu eases off the bed. He’d been kneeling on it to look out the window. Getting to his feet is an ordeal, one which would be better suited to a man thrice his age. Yondu reaches behind himself, one hand pressed against the plug for security as he moves.

Fuck knows _why_. It’s not as if it’ll be sliding out any time soon; Yondu’s tight enough to prevent that. But he can’t help but feel awkward: ungainly as a newborn pup, silicone shifting and gouging at soft blue muscle with every tentative shuffle.

No use being embarrassed when there ain’t nobody around to see him. Yondu pulls on his jumpsuit in vicious yanks. It takes mental effort to subdue the Ravager Admiral in his mind, which berates him for degrading himself, submitting to another, showing weakness. This is survival. Nothing more; nothing less. So what if he enjoys himself along the way? Ain’t nothing to be ashamed of.

Yondu’s surety of this swiftly disintegrates when he punches the open panel on the lock and steps out – only to trip over Quill, who’s curled in the doorway.

He’s in a blindspot, below what can be scouted from the window. Cunning little shit. Whether or not he did it on purpose, Yondu decides to blame him for it anyway – if only because he falls heavily on his belly, a loud whine cracking from his throat as the plug bounces inside him. Recovering quickly, he rolls onto his back and boots the boy in half-hearted retaliation.

Quill, who’d been boredly humming the theme to one of his trashy Terran songs, cuts off mid chorus. “You kicked me! Twice!”

“You got under my feet,” Yondu corrects. “ _Then_ I kicked ya.” Wincing, he shifts to sit with his back on the doorpost opposite Quill, legs tucked under him in an attempt to limit the pressure on his inner lining.

His asshole twinges, straining around its intruder. And damn, but why’d he have to run into _Peter?_ Yondu was dreading facing one of Czar’s steroid-abusing stooges. This is so much worse.

Yondu wishes he could trust himself to make a break for the bathroom without wiggling his hips more than necessary. “What’chu doin’ here boy?” he barks to distract himself. Quill shrugs. 

“Bela’s with Czar. They kicked me out; said no one on this floor’s fool enough to hurt me so long as I keep my mouth shut. Couldn’t get into Czar’s room, and when I looked you were asleep.” Yondu winces. Passed out, more like. Thank fuck Czar’d seen fit to toss his blanket over him before he left. “Why’re you sleepy? It’s like, three in the afternoon!” Yondu doesn’t bother telling Quill, as he already has done multiple times, that not every star-system uses his weird twenty-four hour system, and that this place operates on a triple-compound clock attuned to each of the stars Xandar orbits.

“Been busy,” he says, because he can’t think of an excuse on the spot. Quill sniffs.

“Getting old, more like – hey! Ow!”

“ _Now_ I’ve kicked ya twice.”

“A-hole!”

“Brat.”

They glower at each other, until Quill can’t take it anymore. His grin cracks through the stoic façade. Yondu, infinitely better at maintaining a poker face, nevertheless finds it hard to keep scowling; he reveals a hint of mirth in the flash of a gold-capped tooth. “So?” he asks, nudging Peter’s shoe with his own. “Whas there t’do round here?”

Quill shrugs. “Not much.” But then his face brightens. “Bela says if I volunteer for cleaning shifts, I can earn enough credit to get my Walkman back!”

“If I knew all it took t’get ya excited about scrubbing was stealing yer Walkman, I’d’ve done it years back.”

The nudge is returned, somewhat harder. “Jackass.”

“This Jackass’s still yer captain. Show me some damn respect.”

Quill frowns. “Not captain,” he says slowly. “Not anymore. Czar’s in charge, right?”

That may be so, but he doesn’t have to rub it in. Yondu stands, steadying himself against the door when his legs sway and threaten to deposit him on the ground again.

“You okay?” Peter asks. “You ain’t sick or something, are you? I don’t wanna catch it.” But there’s genuine worry in his eyes. Yondu hates seeing that directed at him, as if _he’s_ the one who needs protecting.

“I’m fine,” he says, and manages a bright grin to confirm it. “Wanna go get started on that cleaning detail?”

Peter beams. “You’re gonna help?”

Yondu shoots him down with a casual wave of the hand. “Nah. But I’ll watch an’ yell encouragement. Moral support.”

“Dick.”

“Yer runnin’ outta insults, boy.”

“I could do this all day! You arrogant… uh… blueberry!”

Yondu does his best to concentrate on Peter’s increasingly eclectic invectives as they stroll towards the staircase at the far edge of Czar’s floor. Most Xandarian architecture looks too flimsy to hold more than two of their native species, let alone the various Kronans, Kymellians and the like who’ve made their home on the planet following the Kree-Skrull war – and consequently been arrested for bringing their ways of life with them. The Kyln is an exception. Iron grating overlays bulky columns, each level enforced with thick steel support struts broader than Yondu’s torso is long. The grilling doesn’t bend and flex underfoot like the floorways of the _Eclector:_ a galleon so old that its rivets loosen practically as soon as your spanner withdraws. Everything here is rigid and sturdy, designed to look inescapable – a psychological enforcement of the prisoner’s place.

Well, fuck that. Rules are made to be broken, and prisons are made to be broken out of. So what if this one’s tougher than any of the others that’ve had the dubious honor of harboring the Ravager Admiral? Yondu’ll bust this baby wide, like all the others. He’s just gotta wait until an opportunity presents itself.

Job selection occurs once a day, preparing for tomorrow’s shifts. Yondu’s watched the gathering before, perched with his legs swinging between the railings from Czar’s high vantage. From up there, guards and prisoners morph into mottled darting birds, identifiable only by the variation in their plumage: the guards blue and black, the prisoners garish yellow.

Yondu’s never felt a need to join them. Bowing and scraping to his captives in exchange for marginally better treatment ain’t where he gets off. Heck, if it weren’t for Peter, he wouldn’t even have struck the deal with Czar, regardless of its perks: a non-crowded sleeping cell, enough sustenance, and moderate safety. Yondu’d rather suffer than debase himself. But having a brat of your own makes all of your instincts fall outta whack.

…That’s not what Peter is to him, of course. Yondu’s just speaking hypothetically.

He slopes to the back of the group, nudging Peter to join the other suckers willing to pull their weight while he perches on a table. Then swiftly changes his mind and sinks into the seat below, hiding his knees under the desktop so no one sees his thighs rub together.

Stupid fucking plug.

Under the sadistic stares of his fellow prisoners, who probe him with their eyes as if testing for weakness, Yondu had mustered the strength not to stagger as he walked. But now he’s seated that barrier begins to unravel. Yondu has to clench his fists to stop himself constantly rearranging in the hopes of bringing relief, or worse: swivelling his hips in concentric circles, driving that plug further, deeper, until it stabs that bundle of nerves that’d milked his earlier orgasm from him like a blast from a goddam plasma cannon…

Nope. He wills himself to concentrate. Quill hops at the back of the crowd, hand waving to catch the supervisor’s eye. “Me next!” he cries, as the Corpsman taps designations and duties into his palm-held holographic schedule. “Me!” Him being Quill, and Quill being an idiot, he doesn’t think anything of elbowing the bigger lugs in his efforts to make it to the front of the queue.

“Cute,” says a voice from besides Yondu. It’s the Hawker. She settles onto the bench besides him, squeezing her blubbery body in with some difficulty. The same big brute from last night hovers over her shoulder. Protection, Yondu guesses; he certainly isn’t arm-candy. “Czar like his present?”

Yondu smirks. “S’all wrapped up, if thas what’chu mean.”

She blinks. “…I see.”

They watch Quill bounce about, jostled between the prisoners’ larger bodies like a ping-pong ball as he tries to bagsy one of the pleasanter work shifts. What he winds up with – scrubbing the showers – ain’t especially glamorous, not by Yondu’s reckoning. But Peter saunters back to him glowing with victory, and who’s Yondu to rain on his parade?

“What’chu want from me?” he asks her as Quill approaches, his new worker’s wristband held triumphantly aloft. “Just a customer review?”

“Customer’s review of what?”

“Never you mind.” The Hawker examines this small exchange between captain and Terran with interest.

“He doesn’t know?”

“No,” Yondu snaps, ignoring Peter’s curious cock of the head. “And it’ll be stayin’ that way!”

He can deal with every man, woman, and other organism in this shithole looking down their nose at him. But if Peter ever looked at him like the Hawker’s doing now: derisive, contemptuous, smug… Yondu doesn’t know what he’d do. “Hm. Alright. Perhaps the rest of our conversation would be had better in private.” She pays about as much attention as Yondu to Peter’s grumbles of “What don’t I know?” Just nods to her crony. “Take him to Bela’s room. Wait outside until Czar’s through.”

“How did ya know Czar was in there?” Yondu asks, ever-suspicious. The Hawker rolls her eyes at him.

“Friends in low places.”

“Don’t get much lower than this, honey.”

“Oh, you’d be surprised.” The Hawker heaves her bulk from the bench, metal creaking alarmingly as it readjusts to the sudden dramatic decrease in weight. “Now run along, boy.”

“Hold on a sec.” Yondu grabs Quill’s arm – not that he’s going anywhere just yet, given he’s conducting an ongoing monologue about how he’s underappreciated and disrespected, and nobody tells him nothing. “How do I know you ain’t gonna take him and sell him to one of these freaks?” A quick nod around him makes several prisoners, all of whom have been none-too-subtly eavesdropping, jump and scurry to look busy elsewhere. “Yer the goddam Hawker. If there’s a price high enough…”

Her greasy smile only grows. “As of yet, no price is worth Czar’s wrath. He doesn’t like it when you touch his things.” Because that’s what they are now. Things. Property. Yondu grits his teeth. He releases his deathgrip on Quill’s sleeve, and pushes him to join his latest guardian.

“Awright,” he growls to the Hawker. “Les head in the bathroom. Then ya can say yer piece.”

She’s generous enough to walk behind him so no one notices his legs trembling, hips rolling a little much for the typical male gait as he simultaneously strives to maximize the pleasure from the plug bumping his prostate, and reduce it to a level where he’ll be able to concentrate on whatever deal the Hawker is going to propose. Yondu leans on the sinks as soon as they’re alone – the Hawker having sent the few occupants of this bog block scampering with a single glare. “What’chu got for me.”

“Something that’ll help.”

“With what?”

No need to bother with euphemisms when there’s no one else in the room. “When he fucks you, of course,” says the Hawker. She digs a vial from the folds in her flab and holds it out. The glass is bottle-green; looks like it was nabbed from the onsite pharmacy. The label, sticky with sweat, is illegible. When Yondu snatches for it she holds it out of reach. “No payment, no goods.”

Yondu settles into an easy pose, examining his chipped and grubby nails. “Oh yeah? Why’d I even want it?”

She scoffs. “I was in a showerset with Czar when I first arrived. Trust me. Two weeks, even with my plugs, isn’t gonna make this easy on your ass.”

“So this is – what? A mercy-offering?” Because like hell does Yondu trust that. She knows what Czar does to him behind closed doors; what he plans to _do._ He’s debased in her eyes. A high-ranking bitch is still a bitch, and businesswomen like her don’t make offers to slaves.

Which is why when she smiles like she’s sharing a secret and whispers – “Insurance. So that when you bust out and go on this promised murdering spree, I’m not on the hitlist.” – he should be more wary. But Yondu’s self-esteem hasn’t been fanned in quite some time. Hearing that someone believes he can escape – no, expects him to! – is like downing a shot of whiskey. It warms him from the inside out.

Before he knows what he’s doing, Yondu’s holding out his hand. “Deal,” he says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Comment, feed me, etc. xxx**


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **In which Yondu's a goddamn cocktease who deserves everything he gets.**

That night’s extraction is a hurried affair, both of them yawning and eager for sleep. Yondu ain’t in the mood for another round, and Czar must have sated himself with Bela. Given the woman’s size, she must be one of the rare prisoners who can take the badoon without splitting at the seams. Lucky lass.

Nevertheless, she looks worn out when Yondu slips into the cell. Even moreso by the time he leaves, before the breakfast alarm goes off. Being sure to tread on Peter at least once as he ambles out the door, Yondu stretches, grins, and struts the two meters to Czar’s adjoining cell.

He hopes to catch him unguarded. He’s disappointed.

The man sits on his bed, hands resting on his thighs in quiet meditation. When Yondu enters, not bothering to knock, he doesn’t glance up or even scowl. Merely pats his lap, jumpsuit already stripped to his waist.

Yondu approaches with all due wariness. It’s as if he’s playing ‘What’s the time, Mr Wolf’ – that being another of Quill’s favourite games, although he claims he’s too old for it now. He doesn’t know what to expect. Is Czar angry that he entered without waiting for permission? Does he want to renege on their deal? Or is he just raring to go? Yondu can’t read a single emotion bar patience, and eventually, Czar loses that too.

Catching his wrist, he reels Yondu the rest of the way. He hoists him to sit astride him. His thighs are forced wide around that bulky green torso, knees digging into the very edge of the bed and feet jutting off the edge. It ain’t the most stable position. In fact, Yondu would feel downright precarious if it wasn’t for the trunk-like arm supporting his back, helping him keep his balance.

“Are you ready?” Czar enquires, rubbing his hole through his clothes. His thumb doesn’t feel so big any more. Yondu’s tightened up as he slept, as Czar had foreseen, but his rim puffs beautifully, inviting anything pressed against it to bury itself inside.

Yondu hisses when a crinkling wad of his uniform be eases into his ass, the zipper tightening on the front of his crotch to compensate. Czar circles the inside of his hole, testing how the muscle softens through the fabric. He answers his own question when it becomes apparent Yondu’s not in the mood for talking. “I believe you are. Undo the zips.”

He’s surprised when Czar brandishes the toy on its second setting again. “Whas this? Ain’t I bein’ promoted?”

“Patience is valuable.” But Yondu can’t help but think he’s failed a test.

“What? Is it ‘cause I, y’know, passed out –“ _Fainted_ “ – Last time? How many times I gotta tell ya I ain’t made of glass?” He keeps complaining even as Czar passes him the plug and transitions from stabilising Yondu to gripping his thighs. “Hey, you listenin’? I can take whatever ya give me, Badoon.”

Czar’s face looks oddly wistful as he plays with the seat of Yondu’s pants, squeezing his still-sore buttocks and grinding the zipper into his sensitive crease. “Not yet,” he says.

For the first time, Yondu wonders how difficult this must be for him. It’s an exercise in self-restraint, that’s for sure – whenever Czar touches him, he’s allowing himself a taste of what he refuses to devour. As if Yondu’s delicate as the glass-spun trinkets he lines along his Warbird console, which shatter and crack during cosmic storms or rough landings. As if he can’t handle a bit of roughness.

Well, fuck that.

Yondu grinds down. The man’s cock is already swelling beneath him. It rises like a tree-trunk dredged from a Centaurian swamp, head bumping under Yondu’s balls. It caresses the entire length of his crack and extends a fair distance behind. Thing’s a goddam behemoth: like a man’s arm holding a peach. Forget public nudity laws. Czar in tight pants alone must be illegal in every civilized quadrant.

The nonchalant revolutions of Yondu’s hips make Czar groan. He ruts up against him, just once, shaft filling the space between his legs. Yondu tips forwards, angling onto it as much as he can. “Y’know, I ain’t gotten you off yet.”

“Patience,” comes Czar’s usual reply. It’s made through gritted teeth as he grips Yondu’s hips to prevent their teasing rock. He doesn’t shove him off though. Yondu takes that as his cue to continue.

He unzips himself and perches with his loosened rim brushing Czar’s cocktip through his jumpsuit’s crotch, sandwiching their torsos together. Czar’s quiet groan makes him snigger, as does the bruising clutch of hands as the big guy fights the urge to let his erection spring free and sink into Yondu regardless of preparation. Yondu’s gonna have an indigo rosette on each hipbone come morning. Alongside the identical prints smattering his ass and thighs, they’re gonna make showering quite the affair. But Yondu’ll jump that hurdle when he reaches it.

For now, he takes over where Czar’s left off. Grasping the plug’s shaft – still so small in comparison to that which strains against yellow fabric beneath him – Yondu reaches behind himself cack-handed to push it into place. Positioned like this, Czar gets to watch Yondu’s eyes flutter shut. The overhead light draws spidery shadows on his cheeks, cast by lashes and stubble in equal measure. He croaks something in Centaurian without realizing what he’s saying, mesmerized by the sensation of his ass shaping itself around the well-lubed toy. Czar’s mouth pinches into a scowl. Yondu buries his face in Czar’s neck so he doesn’t have to see it.

“Fuck,” he breathes against the skin, inhaling the warm stink of sweat and Badoon. His thighs are trembling, toy squelched fully to rest. He quests out the parameters of his freshly stretched asshole, marvelling at the rubbery feel of distended skin. He has to move to lean on Czar’s shoulders as larger green digits take over the exploration. “F-fuck! Lemme down, lemme down, I wanna suck ya –“

Czar gives him a look that’s remarkably arch, for someone who’s diverted so much of their blood supply to their dick. Oh yeah. _Teeth_. Yondu snaps them, annoyed that the trust he’s forced to show Czar doesn’t extend both ways. “Calm down, princess. Ain’t gonna bite ya – not unless you really annoy me.”

There’s a moment of indecision. Then Czar draws Yondu off his lap, exerting pressure on his shoulders until he’s forced to either collapse to his knees or have his collarbones crushed. “You bite me,” he warns, drawing the zip down one-handed while the other cups Yondu’s cheek a little too roughly to be endearing. “Bela rips off your boy’s fingernails one by one, and sticks ‘em in his eyes.”

Yondu strains against the grip, but he nuzzles close as soon as it’s released. When Czar pulls his cock free, he half-expects a dramatic drum roll; even the larger man needs both hands to shift the blood-bloated weight.

It prongs skywards, like a rocket aimed at the uninhabited star-system above them. Just looking at it makes Yondu’s ass clutch the plug like an old woman’s pearls. But he forces the trepidation down, and rubs his cheeks on the ridged underside like a cat staking its claim. Czar growls, teeth snapping together at the scrape of rough stubble. But he doesn’t call their game to a halt. Just manipulates Yondu’s head until he’s lip-to-tip with the leaking head, rivulets of zesty pre-cum coating his mouth.

That unique Badoon-taste is stronger here. There’s no mistaking who Czar is; _what_ he is.

So why’s Yondu moaning, as he wedges his jaws apart to their widest extremity and slots the head inside?

Czar’s cocktip fills his mouth like a fist. The shaft narrows a little behind it, but as Yondu’s hands explore what his throat can’t fit he discovers that it widens dramatically as it nears Czar’s pelvic base, a flare more daunting than the plug on its highest setting.

“Fuck,” he tries to say. Given the cock stuffing his cheeks, tasting of brine and flesh and _enemy_ , it comes out a garble. But what really gets Yondu going isn’t Czar’s gargantuan size. It’s the noises he makes. Yondu understands why he never made him get him off before. Like this, green thighs hemming in Yondu’s head and toes curling in their shoes, Czar’s almost _vulnerable_.

“Urgh,” he moans, a half-lucid verbalization as ridiculous as it looks on paper. His eyes are still open, evidently not trusting Yondu with his Pride and Joy, but they’re slivered to slits, pupils massive in their green iris. “You’re good at this, for one so small.”

Yondu cranes up until he can roll his eyes at him properly. He steers the cockhead into his cheek, tipping his head to one side, and lets it feel the tiniest crest of teeth. Then returns it into his mouth. Inhaling through his nose, he dives as far down its length as his throat can manage before Czar has a chance to complain.

Czar’s groan makes his muscular flanks vibrate. Yondu strokes them, relishing the power stored in those thick green limbs. How hard can Czar fuck? His thrusts must drill his partner through a mattress and out the other side.

Yondu’s barely made it a third of the way down the prick and he’s already gagging. So he cradles its ridged underside and strokes in time with his messy swallows, drool spilling liberally from his overstuffed mouth.

Why’s he doing this?

Why the fuck’s he reciprocating, after everything this monster’s done – and threatens to do?

And why, why in hell, is Yondu enjoying it?

Because he is. It’s undeniable. Every one of Czar’s grunts, so quiet that only Yondu can hear them, ignites another spark to join the bonfire kindling in his gut. Yondu’s always considered himself a dominant kinda guy – comes with the territory when you’re Admiral of a Ravager horde. And while there’s something incredibly erotic about finding a partner who can lift you, spin you, fuck you on his fingers and turn you into putty, Yondu savors the burst of pride that comes with having Czar at his mercy.

Only problem is, with hands and mouth engaged there ain’t no way Yondu’s fisting his own cock. It’s all he can do to rock over the plug’s slim base. He’s ready for the heroin-shot of pleasure when it agitates his prostate – no premature ejaculation this time, oh no. Yondu ain’t jizzing until he’s worked Czar to his peak. This here’s a competition, and one which Yondu means to win.

His surety in this outcome falters when Czar notices his predicament. A thumb strokes his implant, and while there’s no sensation in the metal, the scar beneath it twinges with the memory of a nerve-rich crest.

Yondu chokes out a moan. He can just about bob if he doesn’t try and force Czar’s prick deeper than his gag reflex permits. It can’t be the best blowjob Czar’s ever received – although he’s panting and sweating already, heaving abdomen wedging his shaft down Yondu’s gullet in increments. His foot finds Yondu’s crotch, cloth shoe discarded. When it grinds lightly on his dick, Yondu’s throat goes slack and Czar gains another slick-spasming inch.

Yondu can’t breathe. He’s drowning in cock, senses assaulted, nerves haywire. Czar’s toes are surprisingly dextrous. They grip him gently, overcompensating for Czar’s greater strength – and Yondu wants to reiterate his statement about not being made of glass, but talking’s currently beyond him. All he can do is whine like a dog as Czar raises and lowers his foot, dwarfing the deep blue dick.

Damn. Yondu’s never felt embarrassed about his size before – he’s decently hung, or so he’s been told. But every part of Czar’s body serves as a reminder that he’s out of his league.

If he had more coherence right now, he might be horrified at how much that turns him on.

Yondu moans again, eyes glazed. His thighs clamp tight around Czar’s leg as Czar feeds that neverending cock through the tight, cracked ring of his lips, then tugs it free again, soapy with saliva and pre-cum. “I can’t decide,” he rumbles, splaying his toes around Yondu’s shaft while his heel presses painfully below, all but crushing his balls to the floor. “Should I come on your face or down your throat?”

If he’s wants Yondu’s input, he’s gonna be disappointed. Yondu’s far past helping. He slurps at the tip as it withdraws completely, trying to chase it but denied by the palm which swaddles his crown, moving him up and down as Czar sees fit. Now there’s no meat to stopper the noise, his whimper when Czar extracts the foot from his crotch echoes embarrassingly loud.

Czar looks down at him. Sees his cheeks already streaked with silvery pre-cum, eyes at a dazed half-mast. Nodding to himself, he hoists Yondu by the shoulders until the man’s weak knees stabilize under him and he stands unassisted.

“Wh-what?” Yondu soon finds the strength to complain. “Weren’tchu havin’ fun, big guy? C’mon, I already said I ain’t bitin’ – woah! _Fuck!_ ”

Czar, placid gaze splintering into bestial hunger, hoists him into the air. He spins him before sitting down on the bed once more. Now Yondu’s positioned upside down with his thighs slung around Czar’s face, heels kicking helplessly above. He’s nose-to-head with his cock. It looks even more daunting from above; a solid javelin that Yondu imagines being pushed into his body from either end, holding his torso stiff and firm as a second spine.

“Oh Gods,” he manages, when a green tongue sweeps his entrance. He’s being lowered, inch by inch, the cock now brushing his lips. Yondu wants to keep swearing, keep blaspheming, proclaim his horny amazement to the great octagonal panopticon of the prison surrounding them – but his mouth slips open of his own accord, dick filling it too thoroughly for him to make a sound.

Positioned as he is, Yondu’s fingers spread for balance on the tops of Czar’s thighs. It’s like standing on his hands – except that they bear little of his weight. Czar does most of the work. He uses Yondu’s mouth like a fleshlight, lifting and dropping the Centaurian over his prick while his tongue dabbles around the plug-base above.

Blood pounds in Yondu’s ears. His vision, when he remembers to open his eyes, is swimming and prickly-grey around the edges. He’s diving into this quite literally headfirst. Given he’s chest-to-chest with Czar – or chest to belly – he has to tip his head back so the cock slips into his throat rather than jabbing painfully into his palate, like a sword-swallower in reversed gravity.

He can tell Czar’s getting close. His pulse thunders on Yondu’s tongue, Yondu’s own revving to match it. Czar probes his hole, which is wedged as wide as his jaws yet equally incapable of swallowing that gigantic dick to the root. Each wet sweep of a tongue makes his throat contract with pleasure. Yondu gulps as best he can. But he can’t catch all the spittle and slick now he’s upside down; most dribbles from his lips, spurting down the sides of Czar’s meat whenever he’s dropped.

When the Badoon finally cums it’s with the force of a water-cannon. Yondu has more sympathy now, remembering Peter’s encounter with the hose-wielding guard on their first day – only in his opinion he got the infinitely shorter end of the stick.

Water just stings when it’s shooting out your nose. Jizz _burns_.

Relatively little of it takes that route though. Cum squirts down the forcefully-straightened line of Yondu’s oesophagus. It fills his stomach – and keeps on filling, even as gravity tries to draw it back out of his mouth.

Yondu’s eyes roll back into his head. He doesn’t black out, not this time. But his thought processes fade into static haze, mind devoured by the hot flood of salt. It inundates him, saturating his innards, until the taste and texture – slimy, bitter, thick and viscous – is all he knows. Yondu makes a small noise of discomfort when the spurts show no sign of slowing after ten seconds have passed. His belly swells, pressing against Czar’s pectorals while Czar grunts and snorts against his stoppered ass, orgasm interrupting the rhythm of his rimming.

If Yondu were able to see his face, he’d note that Czar’s eyes had slipped shut. And if Yondu were able to concentrate on more than the throbbing weight of cum in his gut, he’d realize that Czar’s whispering a name against the soft blue skin, over and over again, like a mantra or prayer. Once, that name had belonged to a Centaurian – not the one currently snorting sticky white bubbles as he struggles to stay conscious, but another, lost many years before.

 

* * *

 

“Well that was fun,” says Yondu. Czar, flat-out beneath him on the narrow cot, having pulled Yondu to rest on his chest in an effort at conserving space, snorts. “Yeah, yeah. Understatement, I know. You gonna kick me out now?”

The hands on his hips tighten. “I ought to.”

“Mm-hm. Don’t wanna get attached.”

“Right.”

“We ain’t even fuckbuddies, buddy. Just two a-holes in a crappy situation.” Czar arches an eyebrow; Yondu amends himself. “An a-hole and a prick. There. You happy?”

“I will be, when this a-hole’s ready to take my prick.” The hand scoots a lil’ further around. Yondu, chest sticky from his own squirtings as well as what of Czar’s he’d coughed up, growls as he cradles his cum-filled stomach. The skin’s soft already – _shut up_ – but the additional load of jizz makes his paunch jiggle, liquid sloshing about inside. This isn’t helped when Czar massages it with firm palms. Yondu tastes sour on the back of his throat.

“Stop,” he says, pulling on Czar’s wrist. And amazingly, Czar does.

He waits until Yondu’s breathing settles. Then walks just the tips of his fingerpads along the sensitive line of his pouch, not pressing hard enough to cause discomfort. Yondu’s head thunks back against Czar’s chest practically of his own accord. A furry green thigh presses between his. When he rearranges with one foot flat to the bed and knee raised high, the steep gradient of the limb rubs Yondu’s plug. It’s not too intense; not too over-sensitizing. Just… nice.

Yondu’s life has never included much _nice_.

Now it’s here he doesn’t know what to do with it – especially when half of him is itching to claw out Czar’s eyes for daring touch him, make him squirm, make him cum. And for being a Badoon, of course. Yondu’s really gotta stop forgetting that.

Then Quill knocks on the door. “Yondu! Oi, Yondu! You in there? You said you were gonna eat dinner with me and Bela!” He sounds accusative, in the way brats get when they feel entitled to an adult’s attention. Rolling his eyes, Yondu makes to stand – halted only momentarily by Czar’s arm over his chest. “C’mon,” he grunts. “Lemme up. You want him peepin’ through the window?”

“I care little if he sees us,” Czar replies. Yondu frowns.

“But you promised –“

“No I didn’t.” And thinking back, he hadn’t. _Don’t tell Peter_ , Yondu had demanded – more begged, if he’s being honest. To which Czar had neither affirmed nor denied, more engrossed with his attempts to fit his fingers in Yondu’s too-tight ass and issuing his ultimatum.

_In two weeks you take me, or our deal is void._

Czar notices Yondu’s expression shutter as he glances at the dusty glass panel overhead, expecting a small pink face to pop over the sill at any moment. And he grudgingly releases him. “Go,” he says.

Yondu, always a proud opportunist, nevertheless dithers before taking him up on the offer. “You could always come with us –“

“Go. Before I change my mind.”

Yondu’s still drenched liberally in drying sweat and seed, his stomach inflamed and protesting whenever he moves. He’s not looking forwards to sandwiching his jumpsuit over the top. Thus it’s a pleasant surprise when Czar, realizing his predicament, rolls from the bunk with a sigh and crosses to the opposite wall – remembering to bark a half-hearted “Look away,” before he reaches whatever secret smuggler-panel he’s had installed.

Five seconds later, a wad of tissue impacts on the back of Yondu’s head. He scrubs himself in economic strokes, aware of Quill’s increasingly aggravated thumps at the door.

“Comin’!” he yells, before the brat can suspect Czar’s killed him and come barging in for vengeance. “Uh, I’ll see ya –“

“Tonight. I’ll keep you on this setting for the time being. Then three nights from now, we’ll move you up a size.”

There’s nothing Yondu can say which won’t give away how much he’s looking forwards to it. Keeping his mouth shut, he nods and heads for the exit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Thanks to everyone who comments! I love you all.**


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Yondu makes a new enemy. Yes, another one.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **CW: mention of child porn & pedophilia**

Yondu lives life under a magnifying glass. The details blur out of focus unless they exist in proximity to the stretch in his ass. He has to time everything around it, these long sessions of being stuffed: eating, sleeping, bowel functions, the lot. Only thing he can’t control is showertimes – but Yondu’s been careful not to enter the block plugged, hoping that his puffy navy asshole isn’t an obvious giveaway. A coupla times he’s had to nip to the loo in the changing rooms beforehand, slip out the toy, bundle it in his jumpsuit and hide it while he scrubs off under the steam – but what Czar doesn’t know can’t hurt him. Yondu thinks of him as he slides down it again, grateful to the non-soluble lube that thickly coats his channel even after a rigorous cleansing. And he discovers, to his surprise, that it’s not entirely with revulsion.

That changes.

Thing about relationships is, there’s always a honeymoon phase, no matter how awful. After sharing that peaceful moment post-blowjob, Yondu’s due a nasty fall. And fall he does – or rather, the plug does. Directly out of his carefully arranged bundle, when the guard hustling them through to the shower rooms barges his shoulder.

“Shit,” Yondu mutters. He stoops to scoop it up. Luckily he’s at the back of the queue, Quill and the others traipsing ahead of him. But while the guard scarcely has a second to study the item that’s hastily stuffed back into the folds of Yondu’s overalls, the spongey gape of his ass is another matter entirely.

A sharp wolfwhistle makes everyone jump – only for once, it doesn’t issue from Yondu’s lips. “Well, ain’t that cute?” the guard purrs, beckoning his work-buddy over to join him at Yondu’s rear. “Bend over again, Udonta.”

The other prisoners wisely find somewhere else to look. All except Quill. He twists from foot to foot, his own pile of scruffy yellow fabric smushed to his chest. “Yondu?” he asks, voice small. “What’s going on?”

Yondu shoots the guards a scathing look. They’re not supposed to lay hands on the prisoners unless they misbehave, and then only in a disciplinary capacity. What constitutes ‘rightful cause’ is a muddy area when it comes to beat-downs, and Yondu doesn’t doubt there’ve been _incidents_ where a guard conspired to get a prisoner alone in a room without cameras. However, this isn’t one of those places. Telescopic black eyes peer from the ceiling, scoping the breadth of the locker room.

Of course, prisoners can hurt and rape and murder one another as much as they like, so long as they don’t leave too much mess – but anything involving a guard demands a disciplinary hearing. If there’s nothing a corrupt cop hates like paperwork, snoopers from External Inquiry come a close second.

Nah, they’re just poking fun. Yondu makes sure they see he ain’t bothered by their comments as they trail him towards his locker, jibing like schoolchildren the whole way.

“Czar had fun with you last night, huh blue-boy?”

“Told you he’s nothing without his arrow.”

“Surprised he ain’t still dripping spunk – most of Czar’s fuckbuddies are by the time they reach us.”

“Yondu,” hisses Quill again, standing petrified before his locker. Yondu spares a hand to rumple his hair.

“Put yer clothes away.”

“Yondu, what are they talking about?”

“Never you mind.” Yondu shoves Quill in the direction of the steam room. “Go on, git. I got better shit t’do today than wait on yer lazy ass –“

“What, like fuck Czar?” Quill sounds scandalized. Of course. Naïve brat probably thought Bela was hanging out with him so much because she _liked_ him. Yondu rolls his eyes so hard he nearly loses them inside his skull.

“I’m a damn adult Quill. I do what I want.” So long as Quill don’t realize he’s doing this for him. The kid’s always harbored this demented certainty that Yondu cares for him; Yondu ain’t gonna play into his delusions. Quill still looks furious. But after throwing a lingering glare at the guards, who’re still chuckling under their breaths, he stomps for the showers.

The guards none-too-subtly observe his exit. “’I do what I want,’” one mimics. “Liar. You do what Czar wants, don’tcha? And if Czar’s easy enough that your body buys protection for the brat, how much d’you think it’d cost me and the others to fork out for a quick round?”

Yondu, slams the locker door – there’s no locks, so it’s kinda pointless, but it gives the prisoners a false sense of security that belies the fact that any guard is allowed to paw through their possessions while they shower. “A round with who,” he asks woodenly.

The guard’s laugh is all breath. “The kid, of course. What’d I want with your overused old ass?”

“Kogar,” says his partner, sounding surprised and more than a little cautionary. Right. He must be the smart one – that, or one of the rare corpsmen transferred here who still boasts a moral bone in his body. Yondu diverts his attention onto Kogar, smile broad and friendly.

“You like ‘em young, huh?”

Kogar smirks. “Oh, y’know it. Better girls than boys, of course, but I take what I can get…”

“How young? Is Quill here top of yer range?”

“Not that it’s any of your business, but yeah. Under tens if I can get ‘em.” Kogar leans forwards, heedless of his partner’s push at his chest. “Why? You got pics? I’ll trade you some decent grub for them – the stuff they serve Czar an’ the other top dogs rather than the slop you’re fed. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? To eat like your master?”

“Kogar,” murmurs the second guard, watching the twitching vein in Yondu’s throat. “Shut up.”

“No pics.”

“Well then.” Kogar rubs his ratty moustache. “I guess I’ll have to settle for that lil’ Quill after all. What do you think, Vay? If I get him into an unwatched cell…”

Fury coagulates like a freezing glacier in Yondu’s gut. Of course, being captain of the Ravagers means Yondu’s met Kogar’s type before. Sickos. Freaks who think the shit they fantasize about kids is anything other than vomit-inducing. But finding one in a place of power, especially when that power’s over him and his, is another matter. He wants to see where he can push this. Deem whether this is pure bluster; see how far Kogar’s willing to go…

“You wanna trade food?” he asks. “Gonna have to offer something better than that, my friend.”

Vay looks peaky. Yondu can’t vindicate him completely though, as rather than bringing this deal to a halt with the aid of the stun baton in his belt, he instead pats Kogar on the shoulder and slopes for the exit. “I’ll be outside,” he mutters. “Give you two some privacy.”

It’s tempting to wring Kogar’s stringy throat the moment they’re alone. Yondu knows he could overpower him – he’s fuelled by hatred and the need to protect, which gives him more clout than any electrified truncheon. But as there’s a ton of cameras on him, and he’s the last sod Kogar’s been seen alive with, he’d only be incriminating himself – and making things worse for him and Quill in the long run. Best let Kogar choose the place of his own demise.

With that in mind, Yondu fights to keep the loathing from his face as he haggles over Quill’s head. They settle on a price: a decent meal for every session, and a private cell like Czar’s, so Yondu can count himself on the same ranking. Yondu knows Czar would never stand for such a breach of terms – their little power plays are only effective for cementing Czar’s place in the prison hierarchy if he stays visibly dominant. By his smirking, Kogar’s well aware of this fact.

Yondu lets him keep envisioning him as some greedy scoundrel, ignorant of the prison’s complex power-dynamics. It’s safer to be underestimated. He can’t have Kogar guessing at the plan that’s crystallizing in his mind.

They determine the time and the place. Yondu offers his hand for the shaking. He’s too hateful to hold the other’s clammy grip for long, but he manages a single pump and a jagged smile. “Alright then,” he says. “Five days.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Wuhwoah**
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> **Also btw if u want more space pirate shenanigans check out my ask-a-ravager blog on tumblr (I don't think I've waffled about it in, like, a week)**


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Shit starts to go wrong.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **CW: non-con**

Yondu spends the rest of the day watching Quill like a hawk. Quill who is neither talking to, looking at, nor acknowledging him. Yondu ain’t complaining; it makes the watching easier.

He doesn’t shirk the silent treatment. If this is how the kid processes what he inadvertently learnt from the guards, so be it. It’s funny though. He never thought he’d miss the kid’s jabber, or his attempts to get Yondu to harmonize as he hums _Come and Get Your Love_ , or his wistful reminiscing about freedom; not until they were replaced by a stubbornly turned back.

Even Bela notices the difference. It’d be hard not to, when her plying of Quill with contraband sweeties fails. Yondu would commiserate with her, except that she’s got it into her head that this is all his fault, and is ignoring him too.

And so they sit in silence.

Yondu’s quarantined to one corner of the cell; every attempt to shuffle closer to the others is met by a synchronized scoot away. Well, fuck ‘em both. Shooting two vehement middle fingers, he collapses on his side and tries to sleep.

He only remembers that he hasn’t replaced the plug when Czar bangs on the door. “Udonta!”

Yondu scrambles to sit, eyes flicking to the pile of grungy jumpsuits he’d meant to take to laundry that afternoon. He and Quill nabbed fresh sets on their way out of the shower-racks, but Yondu’d kept his plug bundled up with the dirties, too engrossed in plotting to notice. Now though, memory comes flooding back – along with a hearty dose of aggravation. He could kick himself. How could he be so stupid…?

There’s not enough time to grab the plug before Czar barges in. Even less to lube himself up and slither wetly down it – wouldn’t be able to do that anyway, not with Quill in the corner.

The kid glowers at him, eyes hooded and fiery. How dare he look _betrayed_ , when Yondu’s doing all this for him?

“Go on then,” he baits, the first words he’s said to Yondu since he saw Kogar corner him against the lockers. “Can’t keep your boss waiting.” Bela makes to rise when Yondu remains frozen, his casual lounge petrified into something cramped and angular. If he doesn’t go she’ll force him. Then Quill’s image of him will be tarnished all the more. Despite everything, Yondu doesn’t think he could stomach that. Stumbling upright, he sidesteps for the door before she can frogmarch him out.

“I’m comin’, I’m comin’. Calm yer big green tits.” That pulls a low-pitched snort from Czar: a heavy animal huff that’s at once amused and warning. It’s worth the danger. As Yondu punches the panel and strides out to face his judgment, he catches Quill in the mirrored reflection from the grubby cell-door glass, just as the boy ducks to hide his smile.

***

That bravado fades as soon as Yondu’s no longer in Quill’s sights. Czar’s gonna be pissed. It’s inevitable. All Yondu can bet on is _when_ , not _if_. Because at some point in the foreseeable future Czar will yank down his pants, spy his empty hole, accuse him of disobeying his orders, and then...

And then…

Who knows?

Yondu hopes that question will be answered promptly. If Czar strips him as soon as they reach his quarters, they can get the yelling and beating over with. That avenue’s dashed when Czar aims his stride in the opposite direction. He weaves through the henchmen scattered strategically across his balcony: gargantuan, stony-faced sentinels who break from their sloppy attention-positions only to nod at Czar as he marches by. Yondu has to jog to keep up. He finds himself routinely ignored. Whether it’s because he’s below the guards’ eyeline or they’ve learnt the hard way not to look at their boss’s bitches, Yondu doesn’t care to guess.

“Where we goin’, big guy?”

“I have some business to deal with. Your presence might be an asset.”

Yondu presses a hand to his chest, mock-flattered. “Lil’ ol’ me?”

Czar slants a smirk at him. “I like to remind these bastards what I’m capable of.”

“Y’mean, fuckin’ me? Cause you ain’t capable of that yet. Tight-ass, remember?”

Czar’s palm centres on his lower back. It’s an unnecessary guide, steering Yondu for the stairwell. Yondu flinches at its first brush, but gingerly relaxes into the radiating warmth. That’s all the excuse that hand requires. It slides lower, cupping and kneading well-bruised flesh, heedless of who might bear witness.

“How could I forget,” Czar growls.

Yondu teeters on the top step. Czar’s so close behind him: so tall and warm and wide, a bulwark of solid muscle. His smell isn’t offensive anymore. Overwhelming, yes; powerful, yes; abhorrent, no. Badoon-musk clouds Yondu’s synapses, bitter as woodsmoke from a day old bonfire. Heck, if it weren’t for the scratch of nails against his inner thighs, grazing dangerously close to where a plug ought to sit, Yondu might enjoy this.

But even this level of public exposure is nerve-wracking. Yondu peers behind them every third second, like a nervous tic, expecting Quill to emerge from Bela’s cell. And while the meatheads patrolling this deck are loyal to Czar – Yondu hopes – having them watch his defilement is mortifying. He can’t submit to this. He definitely can’t let Czar find out his secret. Not here; not in public…

Only one thing for it.

Yondu wriggles from Czar’s grip, grin sly and coquettish. He looking at him from under his dark blue lashes, a non-verbal _come get me_ , and darts down the steps.

Czar indulges him until Yondu, having no idea where the heck they’re going, starts to head in the wrong direction. He’s brought to an abrupt halt. A hand hits his shoulder with all the weight of an anvil onto a cartoon character’s head, jerking him painfully back against Czar’s body.

“Ow,” he complains, rotating the strained joint. Czar doesn’t apologize. “Alright, have it yer own way. You lead. Means I get to stare at your ass for a change.”

Czar snorts again. But he must realize it’s less hassle to ignore Yondu’s antics than try to cook up adequate punishment while he has other commitments to keep. “Stay close,” is all he says.

As they descend, the corridors go from empty to heaving. Space-grot is so deeply ingrained into the prison’s steel-plated walls that it gives the place an iridescent shine, as if everything’s coated in oily run-off from a garbage pit. The further into the Kyln’s stinking cauldron they slog, the more humid the atmosphere, the more nauseating the taste of over-filtered oxygen, the more cloying the mingling reeks of unwashed bodies, commissary soap, halitosis, rotting food and bleach.

Czar and Yondu move through the throng of prisoners gathered around the holodeck for their daily dose of entertainment. Yondu would’ve preferred to slope through the shadows at the edge of the great octagonal forum – safer to stay unnoticed when arrowless. But Czar wades straight through the middle. Yondu walks in his footsteps like a dolphin riding the bow-wave of a boat, all too aware of the eyes on his back: some jealous, most either calculating or leering. Despite their animosity, he doesn’t suffer a single shove.

“Who we visitin’ then?” he asks, as Czar climbs the staircase that winds up the far side of the room. They’ve crossed the bottom of the Kyln’s teeming pan with implausible ease; Yondu almost wants to ask if they can go again, just so he can relish the feeling of having a crowd part before him like they used to. Of course, it wasn’t really _him_ the throng separated for, but Yondu’s not thinking about that.

“A friend of yours.”

“I ain’t got no friends here, pal.”

Czar pauses before the Hawker’s cell, an eyebrow crooked in the direction of where most species sport a hairline. “Let’s find out.”

***

Czar had been serious about tracking his finances. He lowers himself onto the chair offered by the Hawker, who keeps council from her bed, her plump thighs spreading over the mattress and spilling over the edge. Then pats his lap for Yondu to sit.

Yondu leans away. “I’ll stand, thanks.”

“Not a request, Udonta. Here.”

“What if the chair breaks? Don’t look sturdy under your wide ass, let alone mine.”

“It’ll be fine. Come here.”

The emptiness of his hole is a lot more noticeable, all of a sudden. The skin doesn’t feel loose – he’s only on the second stretcher, which is enough to leave his asshole puffy and tingly but not gaping. His jumpsuit rubs that soft, pliant pucker as he shifts from foot to foot. Czar and the Hawker both stare at him, waiting for him to comply so they can get on with their discussion.

 _I like to remind these bastards what I’m capable of_ , Czar had said. Why he needs to prove his authority to the Hawker, who Yondu assumes to be too smart to need prompting, is anyone’s guess. But one fact’s for sure: if Yondu doesn’t willingly demean himself, Czar will force him.

Mounting him is like rubbing salt in a wound. Yondu’s become adept at battening down his pride, but doing this still makes him rankle.

He starts off tentatively, kneeling on the very edge of the chair with his ass hovering several inches off Czar’s knees. It’s uncomfortable and ungainly, the metal digging under his kneecaps. Czar loses patience before Yondu’s legs give out. Yondu can’t meet the Hawker’s eyes as large palms compress his waist, shifting him to a more comfortable and intimate position as if he’s a doll. He winds up straddling Czar’s lap facing forwards, legs tucked up on the seat and green arms looped over his belly.

“Good boy,” Czar says into his ear, a fraction too quiet for the Hawker to hear. Yondu stares at a spot on the wall in front of him. He battles the inclination to relax into the unwanted embrace as Czar circles his thumbs over his hipbones: a possessive massage that should be reserved for lovers in the privacy of their bed.

The Hawker claps her chubby hands. “What can I do for you?” she asks. The words are pleasant enough, but only directed at Czar. She treats Yondu like an ornament, a piece of decoration: making a show of admiring him but saving her words for the most powerful man in the room. Yondu almost wants to act the simpering bitch they’re pretending he is, just to see if they’ll spill any secrets. If he’s gonna be forced to play a part against his will he might as well milk it.

Czar arranges himself under Yondu, bouncing his smaller body when he crosses his legs. He seems surprised when there’s no corresponding squeak, but without a plug stoppering his hole Yondu’s more than capable of keeping his noises to himself. “Checking payment,” he says smoothly, as he cups Yondu’s nape and tilts his face into the light. “I need to ensure this one doesn’t get into the habit of lying.”

“Hm.” The Hawker’s eyes are shrewd pinpricks. “How much did he give you in change?”

“Oh no. You tell me what he gave _you_ first.”

As if Yondu’s stupid enough to steal from Czar. Once they’ve established his honesty they move onto more important matters: movement of drugs from outside the prison to inside, alteration of contacts as the guards’ shifts rotate and new corpsman are shipped in from the Nova homeworld, that sort of thing. Yondu strives to look bored while absorbing as much information as he can. He must not do a stellar job. Czar scoots him off his lap, pushing him towards the door and rounding off the gesture with a hearty spank that rings loud enough to make Yondu’s cheeks burn – but not nearly loud enough to hide his yip.

“Keep guard,” Czar tells him, smirking. As if the Hawker’s pet beefcake needs any assistance. “I’ll be with you soon enough.”

Yondu wonders if ‘soon enough’ gives him time to sprint back to Bela’s cell and retrieve the plug. It isn’t to be. He limps away from the Hawker’s door, Czar’s handprint feeling like it’s branded on his buttocks. But the Hawker’s hired muscle catches his arm before he can escape. He reels him in close. Yondu scowls. “Hey buddy, buy me a damn drink first –“

“You stay,” says the man, voice deep enough to make Yondu’s bones throb. “You wait for your master, as I wait for mine.” He’s mastered the art of staring into the middle distance, but his fingers grip Yondu’s bicep with eloquent purpose. “Trust me. It’s better this way.”

***

Yondu begs to differ. Because no sooner has Czar emerged from the Hawker’s cell, grumbling under his breath about flint-fisted Xandarians, he grabs Yondu by the arm and hussles him to the nearest bog-block. Yondu convinces himself the guy wants company on his piss, but harbours a niggling suspicion that this hypothesis is false. This is clarified when rather than making for the urinals, or the cubicles that stud the grotty grey walls like fungus capsules on a rotting trunk, Czar hoists Yondu to perch on the nearest sink’s yellow-stained lip. He yanks that pesky all-access fly around, baring him cock-to-tailbone without so much as a ‘how you doing?’, or a ‘lovely weather today’.

“Fuck,” Yondu says, eloquent as ever. He pinches his legs shut. Czar’s efforts at seduction fail one after another: tracing the sloped topography of muscle along his thighs; rubbing the junction between pelvis and groin that’s so sensitive Yondu cracks his head back on the mirror and moans uninhibitedly. He even boots the door to the Bog Block closed, assuming Yondu’s shy about being ogled by every passer-by – which isn’t wrong, but isn’t the main cause of Yondu’s reticence either.

It doesn’t take long for his amorous smirk to tint with anger.

Slapping Yondu’s knees apart, Czar rams his way between. His cock bulges against the yellow jumpsuit, grotesquely obscene yet effortlessly, naturalistically sexual, like that of a beast in rut. When Czar grinds in close, his shaft rubs the entire length of Yondu’s abdominal panel. It kisses his pectorals with a bulbous sticky tip, reminding Yondu of those carnivorous Centaurian plants that’d lured in bugs with their sugary syrup, then trapped them to be digested over the course of a drawn-out day. That’s what he is. A fly. A trapped little fly with broken wings.

Czar, to explore the metaphor further, makes a terrifying spider.

“Fuck,” Yondu says again. Wheezes really, as Czar squeezes his soft belly then dips underneath to fondle his ass, knuckles grinding on the cold porcelain sink. “How the fuck’m I supposed to fit that? You’re gonna kill me, _fuck_ …”

“It will fit,” is Czar’s only answer. Yondu doesn’t know if that’s a promise or a threat. Shuddering, he ducks his head to rest on Czar’s shoulder, cradling that mammoth cock with his entire body like he’s hugging a pillow. A rock-solid, warm-blooded pillow, the pulse of which beats at a steady tempo in contrast with his own racing heart. It thunks wetly into Yondu’s stomach when Czar yanks his zipper down, emancipating it from the fabric harness.

Time slows as Czar scrubs his shaft over him. He obviously gets something out of this: pinning Yondu down and marking him with his musky scent. Pre-cum seeps from his glans in pungent globs, saturating Yondu to the bone. Czar rolls his meat the entire length of Yondu’s torso, coating him thoroughly, gluing them together like molten wax. It smooths Yondu’s skin, turning him into a slick and frictionless surface over which Czar can glide. A sex-toy. A thing. A damn inanimate object, built for his master’s pleasure.

For a moment, Yondu clings to the prayer that this might be all Czar wants from him today: a warm body with which to simulate fucking. He’s wrong.

“Enough,” growls Czar, when Yondu strains away from the exploratory digits mapping out his crotch. “You’ve been wearin’ this plug all day; don’t ya want it out?”

Yondu doesn’t know how to tell him he took it out several hours ago. “Wait,” he gabbles instead, tugging at Czar’s biceps. “Wait, wait, wait, just give me a minute…”

Czar does not give him a minute. Czar gives him a generous ten seconds to get his breathing under control. Then he tips him into the sink, heedless of the wetness, the mould and the smell of blocked drains. He hooks Yondu’s knees over opposite edges of the basin and parts his thighs so wide Yondu feels liable to split down the middle, almost turning him upside down in his eagerness to open his privates to scrutiny.

A scrutiny that reveals far too much.

The silence that follows bores a dread-filled quarry into Yondu’s guts. Czar’s seen. Czar knows. He opens his eyes to a striped plane of yellow and green – Czar’s jumpsuit, unzipped from the neck. His chest monopolizes Yondu’s vision. This is partly because that chest is the approximate size of a small Novacraft, but also because Yondu is adamantly avoiding Czar’s gaze.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. A shamed hand curls over his crotch, as if he can erase the memory of his tight-pursed ass from Czar’s mind. “I’m sorry, I didn’t think, just wanted it out…” The Kogar-shindig’s need-to-know. Even in a situation as hazardous as this, Yondu still has the coherence to lie.

Much good that it does him.

A green palm covers his entire face, eyebrows to chin, effectively snuffing his excuses. Yondu thrashes his head from side to side, but he has no chance of escaping – not when Czar squeezes until his temples strain against his scalp, threatening to burst out like bone-white snowdrops.

“Where is it?” asks Czar. His voice is deceptively pleasant. When Yondu doesn’t answer immediately though, that false-affable expression degenerates into something snarling and incensed. Czar rams two fingers into Yondu’s unprepared hole, hard as a skewer through a kebab. His sharp whinge echoes in his ears long after he’s clamped his jaw on the sound, and the sting only burgeons as Czar draws those fingers brutally apart.

The muted tearing sensation intensifies. Blue blood streaks Czar’s fingers. There’s a furnace stoked inside of him, and not of the good kind.

Czar’s wrist is thick as a tree branch. Yondu clutches it anyway, struggling to drag himself off that blunt intrusion. But his attempts to scoot back result only in Czar pushing forwards. His hand’s an inescapable battering ram that drives deep into Yondu’s body. Trapped between those fingers and the back of the sink, it’s all Yondu can do to gouge at the tendons in his hand as massive green fingers delve into the first knuckle, then the second, then the root. Each bursts into Yondu’s body with an explosive pop, lubricated only by blood.

“Where is it?” Czar asks again. Right now he’d do anything but bear the third finger, which rests against his spasming rim in ominous foreboding. Each time the nail scratches, Yondu’s mind flounders between desire, terror and hatred. He can’t control the maelstrom of emotions any more than he can free himself from the digitss he’s speared on.

“Room,” he spits. “S’in my damn room. With Bela and Quill. Stop. Stop, you gotta – You wanna tear me more?”

The fingers slow. Then halt, and withdraw. That’s impossibly worse; Yondu cusses every constellation he can name as Czar leaves his body, smearing his perineum in glossy blue blood.

“This is your fault,” Czar informs him – although how he can talk such shit when he’s just given Yondu a haemorrhoid he’ll be feeling whenever he sits down for months, fuck knows. He fumbles a hand between them, a feeble shield that both he and Czar know could be breached with minimal effort.

“B-but, ah, if ya keep doing this I, I really ain’t gonna be able to take your cock. C’mon. Les just… Let me heal up, an’ I’ll take the next plug. I promise.” Yondu’s never had to convince someone not to fuck him to shreds before. He doesn’t do an excellent job of it. Grunting in bestial lust, Czar spills him further onto his back. His head winds up jammed awkwardly under the tap, neck cricked to straining. His legs tremble around his ears as Czar scoops up his ass and plunges his fingers back in.

Yondu thinks he screams.

By the time Czar finishes, jerking himself with his spare hand in sync with Yondu’s agonized twitches, he’s glassy-eyed and panting, throat raw as his leaking, white-hot hole. He lays where he’s been left: legs over his head, spine conforming to the curve of the basin, his bruised and battered asshole presented like a treat on a plate. The face beneath it is anything but defeated though.

“I hate you,” Yondu growls. “I hate you so much, you evil genocidal buttfuck of a Badoon.”

Czar licks blood from his fingers. His cum streaks Yondu’s front, an impressive wad splattering the mirror beyond, smelling virile and tartly masculine. He doesn’t set Yondu to rights. Doesn’t even look at him. Just leaves him in the sink in an upside down collapse, blood pooling in his brutalized hole and leaking between his buttocks, while Czar swaggers over to the cubicles and yanks a handful of loo roll from the repository, sponging cream from his yellow overalls.

Once clean he returns to Yondu. He hauls him up with an easy tug; Yondu’s hole protests, and he yips like a whipped dog when Czar seats him on the lip of the sink and holds his legs wide so he can assess the damage.

“I hate you,” he tells him again, just in case it hasn’t sunk in. Czar lifts his floppy cock – Yondu hasn’t had the chance to get hard, what with the constant vacillation between terror and pain – and subjects him to a clinical probe that has Yondu cringing. “Get dem fingers outta there, dammit. Ain’t’chu done enough?”

“You’ll be fine. Anal tears always hurt. It was bound to happen sometime. Go to the nurse and have them treat you, and I’ll return to stretch you in the morning.”

Yondu sniffs. For some reason, his nose is running. Not because of the soreness – surely not. The ache might be like nothing he’s suffered before – or at least, not since the last time Kraglin dared him to eat an entire bowlful of A’askavarian curry – but he _has_ had worse. You don’t become a Ravager captain without suffering your fair share of scrapes, and even with his arrow Yondu hadn’t been invulnerable.

He is tough though. Tough, strong, more than capable of handling whatever Czar throws at him…

But that doesn’t mean he wants to be pawned off onto some random doctor. Czar’s cavalier-treatment hurts almost as bad as the assault, the memory of which ghosts his raw innards.

Yondu stays slumped in the sink after Czar zips him up, sandwiching trails of silver pre-cum and navy blood onto cerulean skin. He can’t contemplate moving. Not yet.

He needs... Something. Time to process, if nothing else.

Czar, having turned to the door, pauses with one foot on the threshold. He looks back. Sees Yondu, small and pathetic, sat in the sink and holding himself as if afraid he’ll tremble to pieces the moment he lets go.

Sighing, Czar strides across the gummy, unscrubbed grills. He plucks Yondu from his perch. It’s not rough but it’s far from gentle; Yondu finds himself slung over one of Czar’s shoulders, and blows his nose on his sleeve in vengeance. Czar pinches between his brows, as if he’s fending off a headache.

“I’ll help you myself then,” he says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Sorry (not sorry)**


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **This is, like, as close to mush as these boys get.**

When Quill was a kid (more of a kid than he is now, complete with a missing tooth, grazed knees, and a permanently snotty nose) he’d been afraid of solar storms.

The _Eclector_ had run afoul of those more than once. They were the nightmare of any captain trying to run an honest – or dishonest – enterprise: no light speed, internal bulbs on their dimmest setting to provide the shields with full power, the entire ship as cold and dead and unproductive as if the crew had pulled a _Mary Celeste_. Luckily, they weren’t inescapable – so long as you spotted them in advance. There were signs. A red blip on a pull-out holograph; a warning light fluttering deep in the _Eclector_ ’s cavernous bowel. But as with all finely-tuned hazard detection systems, sometimes things went wrong. A Nav miscalculated a star’s radiation output, an Engineer swung them about on a dodgy trajectory, or the fates simply conspired against them. And precisely at that moment, one atom fused with another in a star’s white-hot plasmic core.

Such occurrences lay outside of predictable logarithms. No sooner would those particles meld, quantum energy frolicking like lightning from a Van-de-Graaff, than a butterfly effect of circumstance and physics would send a mushrooming cumulonimbus of fire to batter the galleon from its course.

And when this happened, Quill’s silly Terran brain told him the only thing that could save him from the relentless hail of cometdust and radiation pummelling the _Eclector_ ’s shields was to curl up on his bunk with his blanket over his head and hide.

Yondu’d laughed at the time. Now he fears he may be forced to empathize.

Czar carries him easy as a child, one hand spread on Yondu’s back to keep him pinned to the man’s wide shoulder. His limbs flop ragdollish, and his mind’s numbed from its usual scathing appraisal of all things surrounding it, unable to focus on more than the pain in his ass.

And the stares.

There’s plenty of them. Or at least, Yondu thinks there are. He’s too busy attempting to cram his head into Czar’s armpit to tell, working off Quill’s theory that if he can’t see the enemy, they can’t see him. He still feels the prickle of gazes on his neck. They swoop along his back to where Czar’s palm anchors him, then over the swell of his aching ass.

He supposes he ought to be grateful that Czar’s zipped him up so the prisoners and on-duty guards aren’t getting an eyeful. But he can feel blood dribbling down the rough synth-cotton, tacky where it smears between it and his skin. It won’t be long before it starts to seep through.

“Fucker,” he whispers to Czar. “I hate you.”

“As you’ve mentioned. Several times now.” His stride is unhurried, casual. As if he’s sauntering along a promenade, not showing off how low he’s brought his pet Ravager, humiliating him in front of a crowd. But his stroll isn’t without purpose. Czar starts the climb for his room, sending a gaggle of junior prisoners scurrying from the stairwell with the faintest baring of teeth. They all loiter in the undercut beneath the adjacent steps, peering at Yondu and sharing whispers they assume are too quiet for him to hear.

“Think he got fucked?”

“Guess what they say’s true. Udonta’s really a bitch now. No goin’ back for him…”

“Issa good thing he ain’t never getting out of here. Think what the Ravagers’d do to him if they found him now? Dude’s an embarrassment, not a captain.”

That last comment reverts all of Yondu’s attempts at shrinking. Instead, he tenses in preparation to leap from Czar’s shoulder and bang those fools’ heads together.

Czar has other ideas.

The hand on Yondu’s back presses on his kidneys until they’re in danger of rupturing. “Don’t do anything stupid,” he warns. “Else I’ll punish ya again – and next time, your boy can watch.”

That shuts Yondu up more effectively than any gag. The fight drains from him in the length of time it takes Czar’s fingers to migrate to his tailbone and start rubbing there, an inch shy of causing agony. Czar’s right. He _could’ve_ been crueller. He could have carried Yondu out sat on his digits, butt cradled in a vast palm. He could’ve left the bog-block door open. He could’ve hauled him to Bela’s room the moment he clocked the missing plug, and forced Quill to keep his eyes open while he pistoned it in and out of Yondu’s body, fucking his untrained ass to a bloody pulp. He could even have stormed off high on rage and the sweet smell of Yondu’s fear, and left him collapsed in the sink for the next jackass with an erection to find.

But he hadn’t. Yondu doesn’t know what that means. But he’s convinced it means _something._

Czar interprets his unresponsiveness as mortification or de-energized apathy – neither of which are far from the mark. He pulls Yondu around his torso, supporting his weight evenly across both arms. He squeezes him with a studious expression, as if he’s having to concentrate to control his strength so as not to damage him further. This position’s more demeaning, but it also means Yondu’s hidden from the crowd on the floors below, all of whom gawp up at Czar and his burden with varying degrees of disgust and appreciation.

“Why’re ya doin’ this,” he asks, voice a semi-audible husk. Czar glances at his collar, clutched and crumpled in Yondu’s fist.

“Because I look after my property. And you, Little Ravager, are mine.”

 

* * *

 

That’s cute and all. But any warm fuzzies lingering from Czar’s proclamation swiftly fade when the first wadge of stinging, alcohol-steeped balm daubs his rim with all the finesse of a toddler wielding a paintbrush.

“Ow! Ow, oh fuck… Fuck, you monster… Ya did that on purpose! A lil’ warning next time?”

“If I warn you,” comes Czar’s measured response, “you’ll only flinch more.”

Yondu bristles. “Why ya – I ain’t _flinchin_ ’! S’just… It’s _sore_!”

That last word trails off into a howl as Czar pokes inside, the muscles in Yondu’s ass and lower back fitting epileptically as he fights to contract him back out. “Calm down,” says Czar, restraining him and continuing his penetration with analytical efficiency. “Lay still, and the numbing effect should kick in.”

Right now, that’s too sweet a gift to reject out of pride. Yondu shuts up mid-holler and stretches into a wide-legged Shavasana. He slows his breathing until his lungs feel like weighted bellows, contracting and expanding in sombre rhythm. He only realizes Czar’s finger has been buried in him this whole time when it wriggles loose, like a maggot from a sore, having deposited its glob of fast-fixing nanite-gel far beyond where Yondu could reach. The pop as it vacates his pucker isn’t as agonizing as he’d expected – Yondu squares his shoulders against an ache that never emerges, and lays for a moment in bewildered silence, as if expecting further battery.

“See,” says Czar, deep baritone making Yondu vibrate from his eardrums to his toes. “I told you it’d work.”

Yondu thinks of the stuff the Hawker’d given him: that little green vial he keeps out of sight but never far from mind. It’s of a more liquid consistency, which is odd, and she’s only given him one dose. Given it’s a freebie though, he can’t exactly complain. If it works even half as good as this crap, it’ll be worth it.

Yondu expects Czar to leave after that. He’s fulfilled whatever meagre aftercare his conscience demanded of him. Yondu knows better than to expect an apology; regardless of whether Czar acknowledges that he’s overstepped himself in his disciplining, admitting as such to Yondu would subvert his authority. And so Yondu just appraises him, guarded and tense, waiting on his next move.

Czar watches him back, focussed on his face rather than his bared body for what feels like the first time. They sit for a small eternity: Czar as immobile and stolid as a glacier, Yondu striving to emulate so Czar doesn’t see how much he’s still smarting inside, even though the worst of the agony has waned. Eventually he can stand the silence no longer.

“What?” he rasps.

Czar doesn’t deem him worthy of response. Just reaches out again, making to cup Yondu’s cheek and… And who knows what, after that? Yondu never finds out. He jerks away from the hand, all too aware that the fingers grazing his stubble have already shredded him like tissue once.

Czar’s eyes widen. Then shrink in understanding. He doesn’t force the gesture.

Standing, he breaks eye contact and strides for the small pile of possessions he’s gathered on the cell’s meagre shelves, sifting through for a datapad. He flicks it on and collapses into his chair, pointedly turning away. “You may stay as long as you wish,” he says, perusing whatever Xandarian sigils are scrawled there. Yondu wonders what his favoured reading material is – the thought of him indulging in cheesy romance novellas is too good to ruin by asking. It takes a long time for him to stop peeping at Czar from the corners of his eyes, and drift into an uneasy sleep.

 

* * *

 

In the end, Yondu wastes two precious days on healing. He asks Czar for an extension on their initially-agreed timescale – but Czar only uses it as an excuse to examine his hole, having Yondu kneel on his lap so Czar can stretch apart the cheeks and blow warm air over delicate new skin.

“You’ll be fine,” comes his eventual verdict. He doesn’t appear to notice Yondu’s shudders, as he resists the urge to press back against that tantalizingly-close mouth. “I got that gel from the Hawker. It’s damn fine quality – so don’t go making me waste any more on you.”

“Right,” Yondu gasps. He rubs his flushed face on Czar’s knees, the grain of the jumpsuit etching his chin. “More trouble than I’m worth. Goddit.”

Czar pats his ass: the signal that Yondu’s allowed to crawl off him. He doesn’t dare claim the spot on the bed that he’d occupied the night before – although it’s mighty tempting. He’ll wait until he’s not wincing at every step to test how far Czar’s lenience extends. Instead he slumps at Czar’s feet, leaning on his shin like a dog. He angles himself up onto one thigh, hips tilted and clinging to Czar’s leg for stability, and rubs the swollen little pucker in the vain hope he might somehow have loosened up over his days of rest. No such luck. “Um. I’m still mighty tight back there. Look Czar, I just… I don’t think a fortnight’s gonna cut it.” He corrects himself hastily before Czar gets the wrong idea. “Not that I ain’t up for this! Deal still stands, an’ all. My ass for the boy’s life an’ protection, yeah? Don’t’chu dare walk out on me now, thas all I’m sayin’ –“

There’s a grip on his jaw, forcing him to shut his mouth or risk biting his tongue. Yondu freezes. Then remembers he’s supposed to be convincing Czar of his continued attractiveness as a fucktoy, and nuzzles the ball of his thumb, stubble scraping over the dark green loveline. Czar looks down his nose at him. But for once he doesn’t look smug or displeased. Rather there’s a softness in his eyes – one Yondu would mock any of his boys for if he caught them outwardly displaying it, one Yondu’s definitely unaccustomed to seeing directed at his person.

Suddenly uncomfortable, he tries to squirm away – foiled by Czar’s solid pinch of his chin between thumb and forefinger.

“Trust me.” The words break over Yondu in fragrant waves, Czar’s breath meaty and animal. And sure, that’s a damn sweet statement coming from the guy who’d ripped him open on his fingertips not seventy-two hours before. But somehow, against all odds – and his own raging denial – Yondu does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **If you like it then ya shoulda left a comment on it**


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **In which Yondu makes a new friend.**

Yondu’s met the Hawker. He’s definitely met the boss – intimately and often. The only one of the prison’s top three he hasn’t had the pleasure of making his acquaintance is the Snitch. But Yondu’s sure he’ll get his chance sooner rather than later. And as usual, Yondu’s right.

For now though? It’s all about him and Czar. Besides Quill, whose existence manifests as an everpresent niggle of worry in the back of Yondu’s mind, Yondu could be forgiven for forgetting about everything else in the world.

Czar eases two broad fingers into his hole. It’s such a dislocation from the last time he suffered them – when they were busy brutalizing him in a filthy prison bathroom, a punishment Czar has yet to admit any real regret for – that Yondu recoils on instinct.

He doesn’t get far. The hand on his hip prevents it. Czar grips the outjutting bone, then slides around to gather a handful of stomach and soft blue pouch. He holds Yondu like that, cupping his underbelly while he guides his ass up and onto the intrusion.

“Calm,” he says, smooth and deep as a silo of molasses. “You will not be hurt today.”

And Yondu obeys.

Those fingers cross, twizzle, scissor and hone to a driving point. They tug the pliant flesh this way and that. The verdict – “Still too tight,” – is accompanied not by Czar’s usual withdrawal, but by his digits delving deeper, spreading wider, opening Yondu up so Czar can peer into the dark chasm between them. “Much better though. You’re doing well.” His chesty bass vibrates through Yondu like thunder. Squelching back on those fingers with a lewd moan, Yondu loses the battle and relishes the praise.

“Ain’t so bad yerself,” he says. Czar chuckles.

“For a – what was it you called me after I tore you? _Evil genocidal buttfuck of a Badoon?_ ”

Yondu’s pause stretches a little too long. If Czar asks, it’s because he’s caressing his prostate, reducing Yondu to jelly. Not because Yondu’s struggling to reassure himself that that’s what he’d been thinking – as opposed to the alternative; that Czar’s species hadn’t even crossed his mind. If he can’t be convinced, Czar at least can. “Yeah. Wasn’t gonna say it tonight though – figured I’d be polite.”

“You? Polite?”

“Yeah, I can be nice sometimes – Ah – Aw fuck – _Czar…_ ” After that most of his higher brain functions dissolve, so Yondu can be excused for cutting off mid-comeback. Czar presents his fingers to suck while Yondu’s still squirting cum over the dirty mattress. They taste of lube and badoon and himself, and Yondu laps like a hungry kitten, letting them press on the inside of his cheeks as he rocks helplessly into his own sticky leavings. Czar extracts them – carefully, not wanting them nicked on chipped silver teeth. The sound of his footsteps as he takes his swinging, steel-stiff cock nextdoor to Bela should bring Yondu relief. But as he lays there inhaling the salty fug of sex and sweat, he can’t help but miss him.

In fact, if Yondu was as ‘nice’ a bloke as he claimed, he might’ve harbored a snatch of guilt over what he’s about to do.

Despite what Kogar’s assumed, Yondu ain’t stupid. He knows how prisons work. He also knows that Czar’s relationship with the guards isn’t one-sided – they give him preferential treatment, but only so long as he keeps their prison in order, securing wherever their incompetence leaves them vulnerable. Having his new bitch murder a guard in cold blood isn’t going to earn Czar any brownie points. But Yondu’s confident Czar won’t enact retribution. The guy’s invested in fucking him – he’s spent enough time and money to assure Yondu of that. Thus, unless he’s into necrophilia, butchering Yondu won’t help towards that end. Same extends to Quill – because if any harm comes to the boy, Yondu’s gonna kill everyone in this joint before putting a gun to his own head and following suit.

And so, as lunch hour creeps past, Yondu sits in the allotted cell and waits. He’s asked Bela to keep Quill in the cell the three of them have been sharing since they became Czar’s property. Doesn’t specify why – but then again, he doesn’t need to. Bela’s a peach. She’s been dealing with Czar’s dirty-work long enough to know when not to ask.

Kogar’s gangly silhouette spills across the floor. He gives the room a quick scope. Sees Yondu, obscured by shadow and covering the alcove behind him (which is, unbeknownst to the guard, home only to a jumpsuit stuffed with pilfered socks, rather than a drugged-up child). Grin splitting his face, he overrides the doorlock with his wristpiece and saunters on in.

“So?” he asks, peering eagerly into the darkness over Yondu’s shoulder. “You gonna introduce us?”

“Oh yeah.” Yondu plasters on his friendliest smile. “But first, shut the door.”

 

* * *

 

There’s an old Centaurian saying Yondu remembers. Well, there’s many he remembers, few of which can be interpreted cleanly into Xandarian and most of which have been muddied in his mind by time and a lack of repetition. But this one is especially poignant.

It’s from the days before fire came to the skies of a little swampy planet, known to the Nova Empire as ‘Alpha Centauri-IV, Silver-Spiral Galaxy’, and to Yondu as ‘home’. That fire wasn’t actually fire at all: bolts from Badoon plasma rifles, rather than the wrath of Anthos and his pantheon of lowlier gods. Yondu knows this. He’d been banished by then, already well-indoctrinated in the hardships and cruel truths of the galaxy. Yet he can’t help but think of it in primitive terms, as if the thought of the genocide enacted on the Centaurians traps him in their backwards mindset.

The fire of Anthos had fallen upon his people, heathens and faithful alike. And it had consumed everything.

The saying goes something like this (albeit roughly paraphrased and with cumbersome translation). _Don’t blow on sparks unless you want a bonfire._ Or, in this case, ‘don’t murder Nova Corpsmen unless you’re willing to face the consequences’.

An old Shi’ar woman sidles up to Yondu as he rinses his hands in the bathroom. There’s something disarmingly shrewd in her eyes, which are bright and beady as a blackbird’s, deepset in the crinkly sultana-coloured skin of her face. “Where’s Kogar got to?” she asks. Yondu blinks down at her.

“What’chu talkin’ about, baby?”

“Kogar. The guard my sources tell me entered a room and never came out. A room you’d staked out not half an hour before.”

“Ah. _That_ Kogar.” Yondu turns his attention back to his fingers, scrunching his nose when the violet rosettes of Xandarian blood refuse to soak away. “None of yer business.”

“Oh, it is. Unless you want me to go find Vay, and point him to where his partner was last seen…”

Blackmail. Yondu’s dealt with that before – he knows when to call bluff and when to acquiesce. He’s as confident as he can be that this time is one of the former. “What, havin’ a kip on the bed? Sure, ya can tell him that if ya want.”

The woman’s froglike smile tickles her ears. “Oh no. I’ll be telling him the truth – that poor Kogar’s been chopped into pieces and stuffed down the garbage chute. They’ll find him, y’know. And then they’ll want a culprit. When that day comes, you can either turn yourself in or I can. Or, if you do as I say, I’ll find some other sod to incriminate.”

Damn. She’s no newbie at this. Yondu plasters on a grin. “Well ma’am, you sure got guts. But if I did butcher that poor fella like yer allegin’, what makes you think I won’t do the same to you?”

“Because if I don’t walk out of here in –“ She checks her watch. “Thirty seconds, one of my boys runs to tell the Boss that his latest piece of ass has traitored him.”

 

* * *

 

Thirty seconds later she walks out. Yondu doesn’t follow. He chooses instead to lock himself in a cubicle, sit on the toilet with his head in his hands, and contemplate his life.

He could hunt her and all her associates down? No, it’s an impossible task. Yondu thought he’d been careful about sneaking into the room unseen, but evidently the Snitch has eyes and ears everywhere, as is befitting for the chief information broker in the quadrant’s largest, meanest prison. Word’d reach Czar before Yondu could press a knife to her throat.

And then… Yondu doesn’t want to think about an ‘and then’. Czar’s an inventive guy beneath that stoic exterior. Unless he plays his part in the Snitch’s plot, Yondu’s gonna face a world of pain.

The only problem is, Yondu’s not convinced which option will be most agonizing in the long run.

 _Kill him,_ the Snitch had demanded. _It’s time for a change of leadership around here, and you’re close to him in a way none but Bela are. You kill him, and I promise you that you and your boy will be cared for when the new order is instated_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Sorry this has been so long in coming! I work fulltime and have a week chock-a-block with deadlines, as well as a whole host of Family Crap. Thank you all for your patience!**


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **In which Peter suffers and Yondu thinks about the future.**

By the time Yondu reaches Bela’s room he’s in deep thought. The threat posed by the Snitch ruminates on his backburners. What’s really got Yondu deliberating is the thought of Czar, dead by his hand.

It wouldn’t be easy. Czar drops his guard around him occasionally, now that Yondu’s a regular accessory to his cock, but they have yet to broach the subject of falling asleep together. Most nights see Yondu staggering to the room next door, bow-legged and breathing raggedly, where he’s caught by Bela before he can keel over and wake the cell’s youngest occupant. Quill’s pieced together what happens to Yondu when he and Czar vanish behind the solid steel door, but he has yet to confront him about it.

He sure gets jealous though. Today when Yondu kicks open the cell, he’s met with a sulky fifteen-year-old pout. “You said you were gonna eat with me!”

“I said I was gonna _eat ya_ ,” Yondu corrects. “Geddit right.”

The pout turns into a scowl. “You were with Czar, weren’t you? How come _you_ get to make friends, but I’m not allowed to talk to anyone but Bela?”

That’s a rule Yondu and Bela had decided on early – best to keep the boy safe. Not that he cares about his own protection, if the way he’s pacing the narrow cell that serves as their bedchamber is any indication, ignoring Bela’s growl for him to sit down. Screw biting the hand that feeds him; Quill’s the sort of idiot who’d turn up his nose at the food should said hand not be to his liking.

Yondu waits until he’s in reach. Then collars him round his neck. “Now thas just rude. Lovely Miss Bela here…” Lovely Miss Bela rolls her eyes, but looks flattered. “…Has given up her precious floorspace for us. You best be grateful now boy, else we kick ya out to sleep on yer own.”

Predictably, Quill blusters – “Go on then! See if I care!” But, after a minute spent glaring mutinously at the man he once called captain, he relents. “Okay. I’ll stay. But only because you two are warm.”

Yondu relinquishes his stranglehold in favor of grinding his knuckles into Quill’s skull – to which Quill protests with a smack, earning himself a punch, and a kick, and so forth. They scuffle a short while before Quill taps out, beating open-handed on the floor. Yondu cheerfully sits on his stomach, toeing off his shoes so he can plant a bare foot square on Quill’s unprotected face.

“Thassit boy,” he jeers, stretching exaggeratedly until his spine clicks. Quill gags and flips him the bird. “You ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

Not until Yondu cooks up a surefire plan for getting outta here. Preferably before the guards discover one of their own’s been hacked up and stuffed down a garbage chute, and start forming their lynchmobs. That way he won’t even have to kill Czar –

Wait.

What’s he thinking?

Of _course_ he has to kill Czar. ‘As soon as I get my arrow back I’m murderin’ every last one of ya!’ Wasn’t that what he promised? And Yondu never breaks his promises – at least, not when his leadership of the Ravagers hangs in the balance. Space pirates don’t follow bitches. If Yondu’s prison-occupation becomes common knowledge – which will happen, if Yondu lets Czar escape with his life – there go all his grand ambitions of becoming the most feared scallywag in the Xandarian starways.

Boy needs to put some weight on; his ribs are digging into Yondu’s backside. As that backside’s been through quite a lot recently, Yondu doesn’t appreciate this. He arranges himself more comfortably on his seat.

 _Well,_ he thinks. _End of the day, this’s a toss-up between him and your rep._

Only one person has ignited significant sentiment in Yondu’s withered heart to win that vote, and he’s currently pretending to choke as Yondu’s toes dig into his septum. Yondu doesn’t have room in his life for another tagalong. Certainly not one who could destroy his status with a few well-timed insinuations. No, the Snitch is right. There’s only one way outta this. And however amazing the sex, Yondu ain’t gonna forget it: Czar has to die.

 

* * *

 

…The sex really _is_ amazing though. Surely the Snitch’ll understand if Yondu puts off the murder, just a few nights longer?

“C’mon Blue,” grunts Czar, popping the button of his jumpsuit fly. “Hold yourself open for me. I wanna see ya stretch.” Yondu must look fucked-out already: hole shiny and swollen from the rigorous fingering Czar had given him after plucking the third toy free. Lube squelches whenever he shifts. There’s no way to escape it. He’s forced to see, hear, smell, taste, _feel_ the evidence, and there’s no defence against such a self-evident testimonial.

Czar’s ruining him. And he’s enjoying it.

Chilled air prickles through the sweat on his skin. Yondu hooks a finger in either side, the spongey flesh hard to hold and impossibly soft. Czar can’t fit inside him – not yet. There’s three days left on their deal though. Yondu’s convinced he’ll make it – especially with the aid of that present from the Hawker, secreted behind a slat in Bela’s room that he’d dedicated an entire afternoon to wiggling loose while Quill scrubbed the showers under her supervision. Now, the only question is whether the Snitch will demand he makes good on his oaths sooner rather than later.

When Czar arranges himself at Yondu’s rear, Yondu entertains the notion that he’s lost patience and is about to deliver that fucking he’s been promising for so long. It isn’t to be. Yondu doesn’t have time to contemplate whether he’s relieved or disappointed.

Czar saws over his asshole, ridged underside abrading Yondu’s knuckles as he fights to hold himself wide. When Czar comes, after fifteen drawn-out minutes of rutting across Yondu’s slippery rim, he pushes the tip of his cock to the opening and stuffs him until Yondu’s intestines are swollen and gurgling with thick white cream.

Yondu never knew a passage designed for excretion could be turned into a goddam sex organ. But at the moment, that’s what it is.

Czar’d produced the enema mid-afternoon. When he nodded to the guard in charge of the shower roster, the room’s other occupants were swiftly hustled for the exit. Some shot dubious looks at Czar’s blue companion, who glowered at them with arms crossed as if daring them to comment.

None had. Czar had been kind enough to wait until the last of them had been shooed, the guard angling a sloppy salute before heaving the steamroom door shut on its creaky hinges. Then he’d stripped Yondu in brisk motions, smacking away his fumbling attempts to assist.

He’d pawed him as if he were an addict looking for his next hit in scarred blue flesh. Kissed his nipples. Licked his pouch. Drawn out the latest plug – fondly nicknamed ‘cucumber’ – and set it to one side so it’d remain in Yondu’s peripherals while he was cleaned.

Things had progressed rapidly after that. If Yondu had taken an embarrassingly short amount of time to adapt to the girth of Czar’s broad fingers, he lasted only five minutes with a nozzle up his ass before his initial reaction of ‘gross’, ‘weird’, and ‘what the fuck’, mutated into ‘yeah’, ‘shit yeah’, and ‘dammit that’s good’.

But the enema’s done its trick. Like this, washed out and sloshing with another man’s seed, Yondu doesn’t feel like a person. He’s a thing. A fuckboy, a cumrag, a container only worth what his ass can hold. It’s as electrifying as it’s disturbing. On another plane there’s a Ravager Admiral screaming that he’s a shame to his men, his crew, his boy – who’s sleeping happily in the cell next door, unaware of the deviances being enacted on his guardian not ten meters from where he lays. But it’s like yelling through a vacuum. Yondu’s higher brain functions are drowned out by the pleasure.

Czar rolls to one side so as not to crush Yondu and have all that cum squirt out his ass again. Once his breathing’s recovered, he moves to sit. He pats the upraised rump besides him. Given how much jizz that rump’s now holding, Czar’s balls must be withered like they’ve been left out to dry in the Sahara. But Czar doesn’t let that stop him from kneeling behind Yondu again, now-flaccid length swinging between his muscular legs as he takes stock of what he’s wrought.

Yondu keeps the position he’d been bent into when Czar first lifted him onto the bed: face down, ass up, ready to be fucked like a dog. As a result, most of Czar’s cum is kept inside him by gravity, his high-hoisted hips not letting it bubble free. After the day’s stretching, he doesn’t have the muscle control to contract it out again – or move, or breathe in more than hyperventilated gasps, or do very much at all. He’s still got his thumbs tucked into his hole. It flutters as his overtaxed channel struggles to tighten around its sloppy white load.

Czar absorbs the picture.

White smears blue. The pooled seed is visible as he peers into Yondu’s body. It’s like looking down a well – a well Czar bungs when he switches the plug to its fourth and penultimate setting, watching Yondu’s back muscles twitch at the sound of shifting silicone. “Still,” he soothes, pinning his shoulderblades before he can spook and wriggle away. “You can take this.”

“Not like this… C’mon, c’mon. You gotta let me wash out first –“

Czar presses down harder, until Yondu’s garbled protests turn to chokes. “You can take this,” he says again.

Blue fingers tremble where they pin his sloppy hole at its widest. But Yondu doesn’t protest any more. He sighs as Czar pops the head of the toy inside. The squelch is carnal, the sight of Yondu’s gaping rim suckling the shaft even more so. When Czar pushes, it sheathes in one slick shove. Czar licks his lips. He pats him there, relishing the sound of cum being churned by smooth black silicone. “Good boy,” he says as Yondu yips and drools, hips bucking back onto the intrusion as much as they cringe away.

This plug’s called “courgette”. He just wishes he could share the joke with the only other person in the galaxy who knows what a ‘courgette’ is.

Yondu’s hoisted to his feet. Czar has to help him redress. Courgette’s a fitting name; if it were wedged any deeper into his guts it’d grow roots and sprout. Czar’s filled him with a fertile soil, but there’s one thing Yondu can’t give Czar, no matter how well they train his body: a child.

Briefly, as green hands draw the zipper to his throat, Yondu’s mind snaps to the acrid, smoke-drenched plains he’d visited after first hearing news of the Centaurian genocide. Burnt-out villages. Scorched bodies twisting into one another in a gruesome tableau of carnage, like abstract sculptures made from charcoal. Women and men butchered and raped, their fins hacked off to adorn a Badoon trophy-wall. He wonders how different things could’ve been between him and Czar in another place, another context. Czar would be a conqueror, Yondu just one of the many conquered. In such a situation, a little violent homicide would be well within his rights.

But right here and now, killing Czar ain’t justified. If Yondu’s doing this it’s for his own security and gratification. Luckily, the morality of an action has never been an issue for him.

Czar catches him smiling as he folds down Yondu’s collar – an oddly soft gesture, one which Yondu’d mock Quill for mercilessly if he’d been the one to enact it. “What?” he murmurs. It seems like a moment suited to murmurs; the two of them share space, share warmth, share breath. When Yondu doesn’t reply, only grinning wider, Czar ducks to kiss him. This time Yondu reciprocates. His reward is a tranquil minute wherein Czar allows his eyes to slip shut, unguarded and trusting.

Yondu knows this because he’s waiting for it. However, before he has the chance to utilize the opportunity and claw out his carotid, things go awry. Czar tilts a little too far left and Yondu right. They bang noses, teeth clacking painfully.

Yondu tastes blood. He stumbles back, letting Czar’s ragged tongue spill from between his lips, hands already raised to defend himself – because what had Czar said about _no biting_ , back when he’d slotted his cockhead between Yondu’s aching lips? But rather than retaliation, Czar only spits blood to one side. He belches out a bellyshaking laugh, sonorous and genuine.

“Always the fighter, little Ravager,” he says. With Czar’s eyes twinkling crystal-bright and his face revealing itself to actually be quite handsome when ornamented with a smile, that hated nickname doesn’t sound diminutive. It sounds almost… fond.

Impossible. Czar’s a Badoon. Why would he ever see Yondu as more than what he is – an easy fuck?

“Why,” says Yondu, struggling to prevent his throat from closing on the words. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think ya liked me.”

Czar studies him wordlessly a moment – just long enough that if Yondu had hairs on his nape, they’d be prickling. Then he beams again, bright and fierce as the sun. “And if I do?”

No. This isn’t supposed to happen. More than that – it _can’t_ happen. He’s a Badoon and Yondu’s a Centaurian. They’re not intended to become friends, let alone… whatever _this_ is.

A good man would stay. A good man wouldn’t run from honest emotion. A good man wouldn’t kill someone who cared for them.

A good man Yondu Udonta is most definitely not.

“I gotta go,” he spits. He shoulders past Czar and makes his escape.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Hubba hubba, drop a comment**


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **In which Czar puts his tongue to good use and Yondu cements a deal.**

His walk’s more of a waddle. Yondu doesn’t let that hinder him. He’s gotta find the Snitch. He’s gotta convince her that it’s be in her best interests – or the interests of whoever she’s sworn her allegiance to: this mysterious challenger who yearns to become boss – to maim Czar a lil’ rather than out-and-out kill him. But before he can join the ranks of prisoners milling about the Kyln’s floor, he’s halted by the sight of a familiar guard stalking along the balcony below.

“Hey,” says Vay to the man on duty. “You seen Kogar? We’re sharing nightshift, and I don’t wanna have to cover his hours, the lazy shit…”

Yondu pauses, praying they don’t look up. He slips back a pace, lurking in the shadows, and strains his ears for the second guard’s reply.

Turns out tense situations like this are only aggravated when you’ve got a stretcher up your ass. Yondu’s hyperaware of his every breath. He counts his heartbeats as the second guard gives the question a thorough pondering, and has to stifle a gasp when his ass nudges the wall, grinding the plug inside. Are those stray dollops of cum dribbling down his legs or his own sweat?

“Nah,” says the other eventually. “Checked the camera rooms?”

A scoff. “Obviously.”

“Shower block?”

“Five times.”

“Hm. Is he in a cell? One of the ones without cameras – perhaps he found a honey?”

“Nah, he’d have told me…” Vay’s voice trails off.

“Eh?” inquires his companion. Yondu shudders, the drop on his leg crawling anklewards. His jumpsuit’s baggy enough that its passage isn’t impeded by absorbent fabric. If he shifts to rub it away he’ll risk the guards below noticing, along with a nice wet trail down his inseam that’ll only encourage theories about what Czar’s doing to him. But if he does nothing…

Yondu waits too long. The drop slips from his leg, out the bottom of his pant cuff. It falls through the grill and plops to the ground behind Vay: a tiny white glob, like a spitball or an insect cocoon wet from the morning dew.

Fuck. Is he too loose for this plug? Or is it just a streak of Czar’s leavings which escaped the pass of the washcloth over his buttocks? Yondu doesn’t know, but one thing’s for certain. He can’t stay here a moment longer. Going to the Snitch is out of the question too – like hell will that fierce old bird respect him while Yondu’s leaking another man’s jizz. Yondu grits his teeth. The execution of his plots can wait until Czar’s seen fit to empty him – after which Yondu ought to be able to concentrate for more than five minutes without trying to rub his ass on something like a cat in heat.

Using the wall for balance, he starts the bow-legged trek back up to Czar’s floor. The Kogar problem will work itself out; the eviscerated corpse will be discovered eventually, and it makes little difference to Yondu’s predicament whether it occurs sooner or later. For now, his time would be best spent contemplating his ultimate goal – how he and Quill are going to escape.

…And finding a way to sit that doesn’t make the massive shaft in his rectum press on his prostate.

 

* * *

 

Yondu never does find that way of sitting. He finds something much, much better.

It’s as Czar drags him to the shower blocks, so eager to drain him out and fill him again that he’s half-carrying him. Yondu doesn’t complain. Ain’t like he can walk straight anyway.

This time, as the plug’s extracted from his ass like a drill-bit from an ore face, Yondu lets the stresses of the last couple of days swamp out his pleasure, and concentrates instead on his surroundings. “Where’s the water go?” he gasps, as the plug finally pops free. Czar’s breath ghosts the puffy hole as he kneels behind him, encouraging Yondu to prop himself on the wall and straighten his legs.

“I’m doing this to you, and you’re interested in _plumbing_?”

Yondu sniggers. “Perhaps ya oughta try harder t’keep my attention – oh _fuck_.” Try harder Czar does. Or rather, softer. Because that’s what his tongue is as it sweeps his perineum: hot, wet, and velvety.

The cum in his guts is already shifting. The downwards flow only increases when Czar presses his mouth fully to his ass, urging the salty-sour drizzles out of Yondu in hungry sucks. Thick milk spills down his chin, splattering on the tiles. It dissolves quickly, lacing the puddles with creamy foam – foam which streams towards the drains at the bottom of the shower room’s cambered basin.

Yondu points. His other hand skids on the slippery wall, almost pitching him forwards. Luckily his thighs are fastened in place, Czar supporting his bodyweight as Yondu squints at the dark chink between grill bars as if that shadow holds the answer to every question in the universe.

“There,” he drawls. Tries to drawl. More ‘moans’, if he’s being honest. “Whas’ down there? Big reservoir? Water filtration system? Pipes?” _Escape?_ He doesn’t say the word. He doesn’t have to. Czar’s eager lapping at his rim ceases. He removes his face from Yondu’s ass and shoots an arch look to his less pretty end. Yondu grumbles a protest, but supposes he has no choice. It’s not as if Czar can answer while eating him out.

“You want a bolthole.” Positioned where he is, Czar’s exhalations scoot over Yondu’s tenderized crack like a gale through a canyon. Yondu tries to arch, encourage Czar to resume his torturous-good Frenching, but finds himself secured in a bruising grip. “You plan on leaving?”

“W-well duh. Don’tchu wanna bust out someday?”

He has to crane over one shoulder to see Czar’s face. It’s a mirror of that first time he’d bared himself for him: back when he was too tight even for the Badoon’s pinky, pinned against the partition between Czar’s cell and Quill’s, glowering at his new master while he struggled to prise the tight ring of muscle open.

(How long ago that seems. If his partner were a Xandarian, Yondu could sit on four of their fingers now with minimal discomfort.)

But Czar’s expression’s about as disapproving as it was back then too. Feeling like a scolded schoolkid, Yondu grumpily wriggles in Czar’s hold, jerking his leaking cock in the hopes that Czar’s competitive desire to get Yondu cumming from assplay alone will spur him into action.

“No,” says Czar, wiping his mouth. “Why would I?”

Yondu rolls his eyes. “Because yer a prisoner, princess. Along with all us sorry sods.”

“I have power. I have comfort.”

“Relative. And power ain’t no power if another man’s holding your leash.”

“Like I hold yours?”

Yondu sneers, holding the silence until their ears accustom to the background whoosh of steam-fans and sprayers. White clouds billow about them like sheets flapping on a windy day. “Yeah,” he says eventually. “Like that.”

“So that’s why you want to leave.” Czar rocks back, glower measuring Yondu head to toes. For some reason, he looks upset. “Is it really so awful, being mine?”

Oh no. He doesn’t get to play the emotional manipulation card. Yondu bares his teeth. In the muted orange glow of the showerblock, the light glinting from his capped incisors seems bright and stark. “Ya know who I am – who I was. Ya know my rep. I ain’t never bowed for so long to nobody. Of course I wanna get away from ya. Preferably gut you an’ everyone you care about first.” Czar doesn’t look any more convinced than Yondu is. A hand sneaks between his legs, fondling his prick – which has yet to deflate, despite their less-than-arousing conversation topic. Snarling, Yondu angles away. “That don’t count an’ you know it! Issa natural fuckin’ reaction…”

Czar cocks a brow.

“Seriously! I’ve jerked it to Nova fuckin’ Prime, but I still wouldn’t hesitate before stickin’ my arrow between her eyes! Get over yerself. You ain’t all that.”

There’s a pause. “You sought me out,” Czar says. His grip loosens: releasing his cock, fingers no longer leaving their inky bruised-black prints across his abdomen. Giving him a chance to pull away. “You offered me your body as part of a trade. I ain’t forced you. Not much. You always enjoy what we do together, and don’t seem nearly so disgusted by my species now as when we began. Your boy’s safe under my protection. I make sure you and he are fed and healthy and have a place to sleep. What more could you ask of me?”

The one thing Czar’d never relinquish. His power.

Yondu can’t help it; ambition’s in his nature. It’s why he accelerated his advancement through the Ravager ranks, becoming Captain in relatively few years and Admiral not long after. He’s a greedy asshole. Shamelessly, irrevocably so. Sure, this dalliance with Czar has been fun. But it can never give Yondu what he truly wants, truly _needs_. Freedom, control, and the open stars.

Czar doesn’t understand that. This is emphasized as he plants a sticky kiss on Yondu’s inner thigh, lapping up the trickling cum. “Admit it,” he murmurs. “This is the closest you’ve ever come to a _relationship_.”

There he goes getting all pig-headed again. Damn _sentiment_ ; it’s the bane of Yondu’s life. But this time, Yondu ain’t gonna run away. Not merely because Czar’s words break over his gaping pucker, breath tingling on sensitive skin. Yondu struggles not to squirm into the slide of Czar’s tongue as it creeps up his leg. He cleanses the sticky trails that’d formed while they talked, swirling in figure-of-eights.

“Like a Badoon knows anythin’ ‘bout _relationships_ ,” Yondu spits. “C’mon, don’tchu get soft on me. This right here’s sex an’ nothing more.”

The tongue retreats. Silence swells for a drawn-out second. Yondu ponders what’s offended Czar this time: his disparaging of his species, the accusation of softness, or the dismissal of whatever Czar had fooled himself into thinking was budding between them. Were the air between them any less humid, it would be crackling.

Then Czar snorts. He breaks their glaring competition as if to indicate that it – and Yondu – are beneath him. Funny, as he’s the one on his knees. Not that Yondu has the opportunity to laud it over Czar – because the next instant lips fasten to his rim, tongue thrusting into the sloppy chasm of his body.

If that’s his way of asking Yondu to stay, it’s mighty effective. Nevertheless, whatever nasty stale-jizz tastes Czar’s suffering through right now, they don’t compare with the potential taste of future freedom. Not in Yondu’s mind. Best Czar doesn’t know that though.

“Forget it,” Yondu mutters, surrendering to the probe of hot slippery muscle. “Les just get on with the nookie-nookie.”

***

Vay’s outside the showerblock when they slope out. Yondu’s prepared to hold his head high, hide his limp beneath a swagger, and answer anyone who makes clever comments about the prison boss’s latest pet with a punch to the throat. However, when he sees Vay he falls behind Czar, shrinking his shoulders to fit in the larger man’s shadow.

Czar glances at him quizzically. Yondu pretends not to notice, eyes trained on the floor. He trails Czar like a dog told to heel. That burns. But Yondu can stomach humiliation.

Vay rushes past them. He clocks Czar, to whom he tips a distracted nod, but Yondu slopes by unnoticed. Vay’s bellow of “Kogar? You in here? You avoidin’ me, you a-hole?” ricochets off the sloped shower room roof like pellets from a shotgun. “It’s been days, jackass! Y’know how much trouble I’m in for slacking on my shifts! Not that your lazy ass was ever much help, but dammit –“

The door clanks closed. Yondu sets his jaw and walks.

Czar doesn’t ask any of the questions that must be brewing on his mind. But he slows his pace, allowing Yondu to sidle forwards until they stride abreast rather than one behind the other. Cute. Like he’s trying to show Yondu that just because Yondu’s his bitch, it doesn’t mean Czar has to always lead the way.

Scoffing, Yondu veers off between the cluttered benches, which are bolted across the floor like the blocks in a glitching Tetris game, no square metre the same. If Czar’s gonna be boring and mushy, Yondu might as well go spend time with his other sentimental idiot.

***

It’s not an hour before the Snitch approaches Yondu again. “Well?” she asks. “Times a-ticking, boy. What’chu gonna do?”

Yondu, who had been indulging himself in a long and leisurely piss, manages to control his jump so he doesn’t splash his accoster. Although honestly, the Snitch deserves what she gets. She’s interrupting his minute of peace, before he has to head back out to face Peter’s relentlessly cheerful conversation.

“You’re mighty quiet on them feet for a lady of yer years,” he grumbles. “You some sorta assassin?” His zipper scrapes sharp and dry, a contrast with the splash of water as Yondu twists the faucet. Neglecting to wash his hands, he opts instead to contort his head into the basin and take a thirsty gulp. Fucking about with Czar is almost as intense as it’s dehydrating. If he doesn’t keep his fluid intake up, he’ll be a husk before lunchtime.

The Snitch watches him with dour amusement. “If I were, I wouldn’t require yer services. Now answer the question. The guards’re startin’ to sniff about, and given the stench from the waste processor’s even ranker than usual, it ain’t gonna be long before they find our dissected friend. I need t’know whether I point ‘em in your direction or another.”

Yondu brushes water from his stubble. “What other?”

“None of yer concern. Bring me word of Czar’s death, and I’ll sort things out for ya.”

“And the boy.”

“And the boy.” The Snitch spits on a withered palm. “More fool me for takin’ on such a burden.”

Yondu eyes her hand as if it’s a viper. “Ain’t I just transferrin’ my ownership from one boss to another?”

“Yes. But this way, it happens on yer own terms.” The spit’s starting to cool, settling into the Snitch’s creased skin. When Yondu makes no move to take it, she scowls. “Don’t be foolish now, son.”

Yondu frowns. “Don’t call me that.”

“Hmph.” The Snitch licks her crinkly lips, dry tongue rasping like sandpaper. “I’ll call ya what I like. When the new boss’s in charge, we’ll divvy Czar’s spoils between us. If ya end up with me, I won’t demean you by demandin’ sex – ain’t right, and I’m far too old for ya. You can rest assured that if you live under me, I’ll use you only for jobs that require your skill-set. Thefts an’ the like. Then, once we’ve stockpiled weapons from every corner of the Kyln, we take this hellhole and all of Xandar by force.”

Yondu wrinkles his nose. “Cute plan.”

“ _Good_ plan. You’ve seen what Czar’s like. He’s satisfied with this!” The Snitch spreads her arms. Given they’re in a grimy, blackrot-encrusted bog room that smells like it ain’t been cleaned since the last time a prisoner was taken for a swirlie, her gesture encompasses the Kyln at its finest. “I know you ain’t. I know you’re different. You were a goddam Ravager captain – don’t try an’ tell me he fucked the greed outta ya.”

Yondu grimaces. She sure knows where to push. “You ain’t wrong,” he says.

“Sure I’m not.” The wrinkled digits wriggle enticingly, like bait on a hook. “All I’m doin’ is givin’ ya some extra encouragement to get on with what you were plannin’ on doin’ anyway.” She squints at him. “You _were_ plannin’ to kill Czar, right?”

“Right…”

The logical thing would be to shake her hand. The rational thing, the sensible thing, the _in-character_ thing – because Yondu should give zero shits about tossing Czar under the proverbial bus if it results in his own advancement. No more time for vacillation. Sucking his lips, Yondu grasps the Snitch’s bony fingers and treats them to a brisk pump. The lukewarm dampness of spittle clings to his palm when they part. Must be a weird custom for deal-sealing in her corner of the galaxy. “You win,” he grunts. “Czar dies.”

“Tonight?” The Snitch doesn’t bother disguising her hope; satisfied the blackmail has worked its magic, she practically vibrates in paroxysms of glee. Yondu hopes she gives herself a heart attack.

“How’s about tomorrow?” After all, that’s the date Czar’s due to enter him for the first time. Yondu ain’t turned soft for the guy, but he’s sure as hell turned _hard_ ; it’d be a crime to let the owner of such a magnificent piece of meat die before giving it a test-ride.

The Snitch’s exhilaration fades, but not by much. “Alright. Tomorrow night. But Udonta – I’ll be expectin’ his head. Ya know what happens if I don’t get my head? Yours rolls – and yer boy’s follows it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Comment, yo.**


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Another crazy-busy week... Ah well, have some more filth. And (a little) backstory for Czar.**

Yondu’s glad he got her to agree to a delay on their deal. Any immediate assassination attempts are thwarted the moment he enters Czar’s cell for his daily stretching.

Czar scoops him into the air, lifting him effortlessly to perch on his pelvis. Yondu’s unable to do more than wrap his legs around the larger man’s waist; he grabs his ears to help balance, chuckling when Czar winces and snaps his teeth. “Gimme some warning next time.” 

“And miss that look on yer face?” 

“What, this one?” Yondu points at his mug, striving to look as bored as possible. “Yer gonna have t’warm me up if ya want me moaning like some chick in a porn holovid.” 

Czar smirks. “I can handle that.” And handle he does. Fuck, but those palms are big. 

Yondu’s spun without preamble, carried to the chair and bent over the arm. So far so good. It gets better when Czar’s hand weighs on his head, urging him to duck low on the seat. Yondu frowns, unsure of his intentions. The chairarm digs into his belly, which is bad; but when he wriggles forwards to try and alleviate that hurt it gets a whole lot worse. His hipbones rub directly on the bare metal, and he growls in the back of his throat. (More a surprised huff really. A tiny whinge, if you were being generous.) 

Sighing, Czar releases his head. He grabs the pillow from the bed and hooks Yondu by the beltloops. Yondu thanks whatever industrial-grade threads the prison uniforms are wefted from as Czar lifts his lower body, hoisting him easy as a luggage-bag. Yondu’s forearms are left resting on the seat while his heels batter helplessly off Czar’s shins – but he isn’t chastised for the accidental assault, and Czar only keeps him elevated for as long as it takes to stuff the cushion into the newly-opened space beneath him. 

“Better?” he asks, lowering him. Yondu’s toes don’t reach the floor, not with the extra stuffing. He grunts his approval, ears flaming navy. “Good. Now, hold still…” 

Czar’s already breathing heavily – not from exertion but from anticipation, a sentiment Yondu echoes. He messily shoves his head and shoulders through the gap between the chair seat and the opposite arm. It’s a tight fit. Yondu elbows himself in the face; only sheer luck prevents him from springing a nosebleed and having to call the whole thing off. 

…If Czar would even listen. He’s only heeded Yondu’s pleas for him to stop once – but that was outside of a session, when Czar was overtaxing his inflated belly and risking Yondu covering the both of them in puke. At the end of the day this isn’t about Yondu’s pleasure. So, in that hypothetical circumstance where Yondu actually needed to call break… Would Czar take notice of his protests, or just hold Yondu down and do as he pleased, like that time in the bathroom where he’d pile-drived him with his fingers until he bled? 

Yondu doesn’t want to find out. 

He breathes in, ribcage protesting as it expands to the greatest extent allowed by the tight confines. Then releases in a steady gush. “What’chu gonna do to me?” he asks. “M’gettin’ bored here.” He expects a spank. Maybe another intense rimming session – the thought makes his cock swell against the cushion. What he doesn’t expect is for Czar to walk away. “H-hey! Wait up, big guy, whaddidido –“ 

“Calm yourself,” orders Czar. “I’m just fetching something.” 

Yondu hides his nervousness at the sound of Czar’s heavy footsteps crossing the room. When he halts, Yondu can pinpoint the spot as the same from which Czar dug out the Hawker’s smokes. Funny, to think that was only a fortnight ago. It might as well have been a lifetime. 

When Czar crosses to him, the first thing to make contact with Yondu’s still clothed shoulder isn’t skin, but metal. Yondu can’t rotate his head enough to see it, but he recognizes the shape. A cuff. One of the double-arm magnetic sort that Yondu can’t slip without dislocating more joints than he’s comfortable with. 

“Oh,” is all he can say. 

Czar doesn’t see fit to grace him with a reply. He gathers his wrists in one hand and snaps the cuff around them with the other. Then repeats the same process on each ankle, forcing his legs into a sharp downwards v, twitching toes not brushing the floor. Then, and only then, does he move to fondle his favourite bitch’s ass. 

With shoulders under one arm and pelvis propped over its twin, Yondu is forcibly arched. With his limbs immobilized and legs spread wide, he’s vulnerable and on display. The only thing preventing him from being ravaged by Czar’s eyes, fingers, and cock is the flimsy yellow jumpsuit, already stuck to his skin with sweat. 

Then Czar eases down his back zipper, revealing him slow as a striptease. He purrs at the sight of Yondu’s distended hole: dark blue bordering indigo; bruise-soft and oversensitized; clamping at the hot spill of Czar’s breath. 

He digs one lubed finger into him. Then two, then three. All easily swallowed. Yondu flexes to accommodate them with disconcerting ease. Czar wriggles them around, getting as much of his passage coated as he can. Then loses patience and squirts chilly lube directly inside him, pinching the tube with such force that the spurt seems to splatter Yondu’s intestines. Given how easily he opens, that may well be the case. 

Yondu chokes on his gasp. His ankles pull helplessly at the cuffs, toes curling and straining, shins banging on the chairlegs. 

“Want you,” he says. A soothing hand pats his cheek, nails carding the stubble. Yondu hungrily laps for it until Czar indulges him, letting him suck and nip while Czar paws his hole – and damn, but digits that big ain’t got no business being _gentle_ : tracing Yondu’s silky inner lining like it’s a woman’s cunt. 

“Want you too.” Czar ruts forwards, grinding his dick over the sloppy rim and painting the crotch of his jumpsuit with lube. “But not yet. You ain’t ready yet.” 

Damn, but Yondu wants it. He wants it so bad. “Please…” 

“Almost. Tomorrow. Tomorrow, I promise.” 

Yondu coughs out a laugh, ass trembling in the cup of Czar’s broad palms. “You gonna make me beg then too?” 

“No. Then I’ll make you scream my name.” Czar kisses his nape. He lets him feel the fat column of his cock where it rests against the inside of his fly. The heat of all that blood pulsing below the surface seeps into Yondu. He thinks of the cum swishing in Czar’s heavy balls, then imagines it inside him again, stuffing him, filling him up. And thunks his head of the edge of the chairseat, as Czar’s kisses get progressively lower. 

“Fuck. You’ve ruined me, ya have. This part of some plan to, to, uh, take my place once yer out? Wanna head a Ravager band of yer own?” 

A quiet chuckle. It almost sounds fond. “You’re far too paranoid. I told you I ain’t leaving – and you ain’t either. Right?” 

“Right…” Yondu moans, shameless and heartfelt, when Czar licks his tailbone. He doesn’t move any lower though – in fact, his presence retreats. Yondu can tell because his bodyheat vanishes; Czar’s gotten him so warmed up that the sudden lack of contact is like being submerged in an icy pool. “Hey big guy. What’chu doin’?” 

“Fetching your present.” 

“Which is?” A blunt arrowhead nudges his opening. Yondu doesn’t fail to see the irony. “Oh. You spoil me.” The fifth plug’s not much larger than the last. That’s expected – he’s near his body’s limits. But damn, if those extra inches don’t burn. 

Lube smears over the space between his wide-wedged asscheeks. His hole ripples down the plug’s ridged length. It’s so thick that most of the slick is rubbed off as it enters him, gathering around his rim in a slimy silver corona. With his back at this angle, it feels like the path into his body has been straightened – like a sword-swallower, who tips back their head and corrects their posture to have the blade slithering down their oesophagus rather than puncturing it. 

“Fuck!” he wails, when it scrapes that sensitive bulb inside him – bulb being an adequate term, given the slightest touch makes it crackle with electricity. Then: “Fuck, fuck, _fuck!_ ” 

The pressure only increases: each ribbed segment wider than the last. Damn prostate’s gonna be swollen up like a tangerine before Czar’s through. 

Yondu somehow gathers the coherence to giggle. 

Czar smooths the twitching muscles of his lower back, feeling the shift of skin as Yondu’s organs compress to make way for the invader. “What’s so funny?” There’s no answer – but then again, it’d be mad of Czar to expect one. He’s unzipped his fly – Yondu’s too delirious to remember when. His bare prick bats the inside of Yondu’s thighs, rutting into the space left between them and the seat of the chair he’s lashed to. The force of the first thrust rocks the chair. Czar’s abdomen hits the plug base, smacking the entire contraption forwards into Yondu’s body. “Well, little Ravager?” he grunts. “Are you mine yet?” 

“Yes!” Because he is, in all the ways that matter. 

At least he is in that moment. It stretches into infinite bliss. Yondu doesn’t know how long their farcical coupling lasts – the clock on the prison tower informs him it’s been an hour, but it must be lying. Yondu could’ve sworn he’s aged a decade. 

Czar undoes his wrists first, once they’re through. Yondu’s already cum messily into his jumpsuit. Three times actually: one wet, one pathetic, one dry and almost heart-stopping. His ass is so oversensitized it feels like he’s sat on a stinging nettle. But for some reason, when he’s given his mobility back, he doesn’t lunge for Czar’s throat. 

The reasoning behind this isn’t especially surprising. For a start, he doubts he could make it off the chair without tearing something vital inside. His ass is moulded to the toy, straining around that impossible girth. The tip rubs the seat through the front wall of his belly, forcing organs and intestines out the way, and Yondu _mewls_ when Czar fumbles under him, pressing on that hard lump with the flat of his hand. 

He doesn’t feel capable of conversation. Doesn’t feel capable of much at all, breathing included. His diaphragm struggles to drop and every inhale is shallow and sharp. Yondu gasps like a guppy, a slave to Czar’s ministrations, unsure of who or what he is. Right then, all that matters is Czar: Czar rubbing his cuff-bitten wrists until the blood floods back into his too-pale fingers, accompanied by the prickle of expanding capillaries; Czar stroking his back and shoulders, careful not to linger over the scars left by the whip and the razor that’d carved his fin to ugly shreds; Czar’s sour breath on his ear, telling him that he’s a good Little Ravager, that he’s done well, that Czar’s proud of him… 

*** 

Yondu comes back to himself gradually. 

The seed on his back has cooled into a thick crust. Yondu’s drenched in it. No wonder his gut swells whenever he takes it inside; this must be what Czar meant about Badoons being prime studs for breeding. “Heck,” he croaks, pushing at the chair legs to try and free himself from where he’s been stuffed beneath the arm. “Shame I ain’t no dame. You coulda knocked me up five times over with that load.” 

“No,” says Czar quietly. “I wouldn’t want you as a woman.” He sweeps a thumb through a stray streak that grazed Yondu’s cheek, then gently eases his torso from its incarceration before dropping into a squat behind him to work on his ankle cuffs. Yondu shivers at his proximity to that throbbing, straining place between his legs, feeling as if his hipbones are being forced apart by the toy’s mighty girth. But Czar doesn’t agitate the plug. Just undoes Yondu’s bindings, and pats his thighs when he’s free. 

Yondu’s attempt to rise has him freezing half way, muscles cramping. That’s easily remedied. Czar lifts him as one might pick up a cat from above, grabbing him under the waist and chest and depositing him face down on the bed. Yondu immediately stretches flat and buries his face in the cushion. Everything hurts. Yet it’s somehow numb at the same time, as if Yondu’s been stripped of pain alongside everything else: reputation, respect, ranking… 

“Why?” he asks, somewhat belatedly. Warm hands strip him of his soiled jumpsuit, lifting and bending his limbs as is needed. “You only bat this way?” His crude gesture at his cock is mitigated by being facedown. Czar doesn’t notice. He carefully hooks Yondu’s uniform over his knees, moving his legs like the limbs of a puppet – but he’s not giving him his undivided attention anymore. He’s occupied by that strange faraway place again, the one Yondu sees him sink into occasionally, which he would be a lot more curious about if he gave a shit. “Oi, where’s yer mind run off to? I can hear ya thinkin’, boss.” 

…Okay, so maybe he’s a _little_ intrigued. 

Czar studies him for a moment, expression unreadable. Yondu answers him with a grumpy blink. When his tremulous attempts to find comfort on the threadbare mattress makes the plug jab the wall of his bowel, he hisses, face scrunching like a gargoyle. “Sure, whatever. Don’t tell me. Ain’t like ya owe me nothin’ – this’s just part of our deal.” 

But rather than nodding and heading for Bela’s room, as usually occurs after a round like this – because even after jizzing once it’s self-evident that Czar’s still ready go, a prospect Yondu should find more terrifying than arousing – Czar seems to come to a decision. He props his ass on the bed’s edge. More like balances a single buttock on it, given Yondu’s sprawled out and ain’t relinquishing his space. 

“I had a wife.” 

Well, Yondu wasn’t expecting that. Although looking back, maybe he should’ve been. It doesn’t take long for him to put two and two together, and when he does his satiated dozy haze evaporates into flint-hard fury. “Oh yeah? Was she a Centaurian?” 

Picking up on the tone of his voice, Czar rests his palm on his bare, sticky back. He strokes up and down – an easy gesture of possession, like the pass of a master’s fingers through the pelt of their favourite dog. But his fingers are drawn to the longest scar by instinct, questing out the ruckles of knotty texture from where the skin had never been properly stretched as it healed. “It wasn’t what you think.” 

“Like hell it wasn’t!” Yondu can’t strain against him. Not when faced with Czar’s superior weight. Definitely not while harbouring a plug the approximate size and length of his forearm, which distends the front of his pouch as if a grotesque, misshapen foetus has taken up residence there. But he bristles and snaps his teeth, glowering at Czar in the hopes his gaze is fiery enough to encourage spontaneous combustion. “Fuck you! You… you _a-hole_. Ya almost had me convinced, y’know. That ya weren’t like the rest of ‘em. But no – you slag-headed, shit-brained, Badoon lovechild of a Devil and an’ A’askavarian –“ 

“Now that’s just uncalled for.” 

Yondu snorts. “You gonna pin me down forever, asshole?” he gripes, writhing as best he can. “If I can’t kill ya, or even be rid of ya without forfeiting Quill, I can at least get the fuck away from you an’ yours until it’s time for you to screw me properly. Heck, scratch that. Pull out the plug and les’ go now; that way I get it over with… Oh wait. Issat what yer wife said to you too, on yer wedding night? You sick fuckin’ _rapist…_ ” 

Czar, for whatever reason, has never properly hit him before. He doesn’t now either. But his fist impacts besides Yondu’s head with enough power to shred clean through the pillow, slicing his next insult with the effectiveness of a diamond-edged saw. 

Flecks of stuffing rain down. They patter to rest atop Yondu’s skull in a sick parody of confetti. His flashing implant illuminates them in intermittent ruby in time with his stuttering heartbeat, like the lights atop a Nova cruiser that’s running on low battery. 

“Will you be quiet now?” Czar asks. Yondu blows away the polyester shreds clinging to his lips. He nods. “Good. I loved my wife.” Yondu opens his mouth to protest. The hand that smothers his words still has that unforgiveable taste of _Badoon_ that’d haunted him on his and Czar’s first escapade; knowing what he knows, it’s all the more disturbing now. Yondu thrashes his head, trying to escape. But Czar simply squeezes until he sees Yondu’s pupils shrink and his nostrils flare. His jawbone feels delicate in that grip, which pinches just tight enough to hurt and more than enough to threaten. 

“ _Listen,_ ” Czar orders. His tone indicates that he will not ask again. “I loved her – and I care for your opinions even less than those of my brothers. But she did not love me. She pretended at first, to survive. As you are doing. And I believed. But as time passed and we grew closer, after I freed her from her chains, she realized it would be crueller to let me continue living a lie.” His sigh wrenches itself from deep in his chest. 

This time, when Yondu’s given control of his voice he’s too transfixed to make good use of it. He’s watching Czar: huge, fierce, hypermasculine warrior Czar, whose eyes mist with moisture as they track from Yondu to their middle distance. “I let her go. Her and my children. It was the right thing for them. They went to the Xandarians, but I had too many crimes under my name… The same crimes against her people, _your_ people, along with all the others my brethren subjugated, which held me and her apart. Such momentous chasms are unbreachable, it seems. Even by the most sincere affections.” 

Yondu finds it in himself to speak, as Czar’s voice lulls to contemplative silence. “I knew that slummy accent was faked. ‘ _Momentous chasms_ ’. Yeah, ya sound like a right prick.” 

The tension fizzling between them diminishes. Just a little. Czar cracks a smile, teeth gleaming between his dark olive lips. “Thank you,” he says. From the warm, reverberating timbre of those words, he means it. Yondu squints. 

“For what?” 

“For listening. And for staying. I know I can be trying. I can be demanding, and angry, and cruel. But when I care, I do so wholeheartedly. I know a man of your calibre could’ve found a way to escape this pit within a day. And thus, you remaining by my side – even after you have heard my story? It means more than all the stars in the galaxy.” 

Oh, may Anthos preserve him from sentiment. “The residents of them star-systems might disagree with ya.” 

Czar smiles again, in that private little ‘you amuse me’ way that’s about as infuriating as it’s patronizing, but which (for some unfathomable reason) never fails to make Yondu blush. He’s lucky his blood’s of a shade with his skintone. 

When Czar leans until his nose bumps Yondu’s, he lets his eyes fall shut, expecting a kiss to be foisted on him with or without his permission. But no demanding tongue swipes the seam of his lips. The hand on his chin relaxes and drops away, rather than forcing his mouth apart. “May I?” asks Czar quietly. Then, as an afterthought: “This does not affect our deal.” 

Yondu is surprised into actual contemplation by Czar’s addendum. Should he agree and curry favour? Or deny, to clarify that he doesn’t let Czar touch him out of free-willed desire? This’d be a helluva lot easier if Yondu was convinced that was the case. 

“Go on then,” he mutters, before his thoughts can get away from him. “Make it quick. Don’t wanna taste yer lunch – it’ll only make me jealous when I get mine.” 

The puff of laughter breaks on his sensitive lips, nerves tingling as if they’ve been zapped by static. By the time Czar’s brush them, Yondu’s already got his arms wrapped around his neck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Tell me your thouuuuughts**


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **ARE YOU READY TO CRY??**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Seriously trigger warning for non-con situations, heartache, and mush.**

There’s no way Yondu’s walking, not with this plug. Czar carries him to the room next door – for which Yondu’s glad, because if Czar’d allowed him to remain in his bed Yondu wouldn’t have had an excuse not to end it there and then while the big guy slept. This is worse, though. Because he has to see Peter turn to the opening door – then freeze when he takes stock of who’s entered.

Yondu knows how pathetic he must look. Curled in Czar’s brawny arms, eyes barely focused, weakly scratching Czar’s chest whenever his steps make the plug bounce…

He’s gathered a fistful of crisp prison uniform, and doesn’t relinquish it even as Czar stoops to deposit him on the floor. Quill’s right there. Quill’s watching. And (despite Yondu’s claims to the contrary) Quill ain’t entirely stupid. He’ll suss that whatever Yondu’s just been through, it was intense, mind-shattering, and undeniably sexual.

But Yondu doesn’t want to acknowledge Quill’s understanding of this. So he holds onto Czar, keeping him as a muscular barrier between him and the boy who he has, against all odds, come to think of as his own.

Czar recognizes the worry on his face, but doesn’t indulge him. He plucks Yondu’s fingers from his jumpsuit one by one. Then, uncaring for the angry Terran, he plants a soft kiss atop Yondu’s implant. He nods to Bela. She rises with the grace of a seven-foot ballerina, sparing Yondu and Quill a pitying glance. They lope out one after the other. Yondu attempts to twist to watch them leave, but he’s foiled by the massive weight that bulges out the front of his stomach when he breathes.

The door whooshes shut, bringing with it a draft of artificially filtered air that dances across Yondu’s oversensitized body. Something comes out of his throat, although he’s too out of it to tell if it’s a growl or a whimper. Quill stays in the same position he’s been in ever since Czar barged open the door: knees drawn to chest, eyes hateful and small. Only now, without Czar’s presence, that rage has nothing to break against except Yondu.

“What’re you doing?” he asks. The innocuous words are laced with malice. “And… and why? C’mon, you’re a Ravager. We don’t bow to no one. We certainly don’t just roll over and let guys like Czar…” He shudders. Steels himself, and delivers his final assessment while glaring at Yondu like he’s something he pried off his boot. “Let them fuck us.”

Yondu makes to interrupt. There is no ‘us’. He lets Czar fuck _him_ , and honestly, shouldn’t Peter be more grateful? This is like saving him from being eaten all over again.

He’s cut off by Quill’s raising voice – and the tight compress of his guts around the plug. He holds his tender stomach as he rolls onto his side to face him. “You always said we were tough, Yondu! That we weren’t nobody’s bitches. Now look at you! Just because he’s letting us stay in his rooms doesn’t mean you have to… You’re acting like a… Like a…”

“Say it,” Yondu croaks. “Go on.”

Quill’s tongue quavers around the shape of the word. For a moment, Yondu thinks he’s lost his nerve. Then his gingery eyebrows furrow over the bridge of his nose, and he spits that single syllable with the cracking force of a plasma cannon. “Whore.”

The flush on Quill’s cheeks brightens until his freckles are all but obscured. Yondu stares at him, measured and cold. He keeps the warring emotions of fury and shame battened inside where they belong. “Everything’s gotta price Quill,” he says eventually. “This is yours.”

Quill sits frozen a moment. Then rises to his feet, lean form quivering and tense. “Go fuck yourself,” is his parting shot. It’s not especially inventive, not by his standards. But the wrath behind those words hurts worse than any insult. Yondu does as he usually does when faced with upsetting situations, and converts panic at the thought of Quill walking away from him into anger.

“An’ where the fuck d’you think yer goin’, brat?”

“To the showerblock. I’m on plumbing duty today. Some of us have better ways to earn favors than spreading our legs.”

“Get back here boy! It ain’t safe for ya alone out there…”

The light floods in from the open prison atrium when Quill wrenches open the door. Wreathed in it, his form is silhouetted: at once emphasizing his youthful slimness and the potential for bulk that’s already broadening his shoulders. “Well,” says Quill, not looking back. “If I get into trouble, you can always let the guards fuck you too.”

Yondu lasts a minute spitting unheard cusses at the door after Quill’s footsteps have receded to silence. Then he thinks about what Quill’s just said – _plumbing duty_ – and swears louder. Getting to his feet is more arduous than any task he’s faced yet, mastering the Ravagers and pulling off two of the galaxy’s five most renowned heists single-handedly be damned. Yondu staggers to the nearest wall, bow-legged and agonized. His breath squeaks from his lungs like helium from a balloon.

The plug is inescapable. It feels like it’s swelling inside of him, each feeble step making him more aware of its presence. Fuck tangerine: his poor prostate’s gonna look like a damn watermelon. He’s light-headed, dizzy, only not-hard because his body’s too wrung-out to redivert his blood, and his knees threaten to buckle whenever he places his foot flat on the floor. But he’s gotta move. He’s gotta walk. He’s gotta find Peter, and tell him to ward the guards away from the stinky blockage in the pipes that’s their decomposing co-worker. And if Quill has any compassion left in his stupid, sentimental Terran head? He’ll listen.

First though, Yondu has to find him. He slaps the opening mechanism on the door, limping out into the light. He squints against the glare, unable to shade his eyes in case he loses his grip on the doorframe and flops horizontal.

Quill… Quill… Where’s Quill?

Yondu calculates the fastest way to the showerblock. Scans the route back and forth. He sees a tuft of gingery fuzz bobbing down the nearest stairwell, and immediately takes up pursuit.

Easier said than done. He’s clumsy and trembling, unable to muster speed beyond a waddle. He has to roll around the plug for mobility, as good as grinding on it as his hips swivel through a walk cycle. This must be what cats feel like when they go into heat: constantly battling the urge to rub up against someone, arch their back, press their needy hole to a solid surface and feel filled.

“Damn Terran brat,” he mumbles, wiping sweat from his eyes. His body’s constantly trembling, unable to contain itself, and he’s accrued more than one odd look already. For now, the only folks who care enough to watch his shaky passage for the stairs are compatriots of Czar’s. But once he gets into the common grounds of the prison, the sparse crowd thickens and Yondu’s buffeted from all sides by aliens large and small, having to plaster one hand over his mouth to keep from crying out.

The stairs are especially hellish. He has to wriggle down them one step at a time, first one foot, then the other. It isn’t long before a queue starts forming behind him, impatient prisoners in a hurry to get to their workshifts or to conduct whatever nefarious business they have on their mind for the day.

“You sick, Udonta?” someone asks from the up-going side of the stairwell, craning away from him as they pass. The man directly behind him answers in his stead – good, cause Yondu doesn’t want to make a showcase of his hitchy voice.

“You kiddin’ me? Look at him. Blue boy’s just taken cock. Czar’s, by the look of it. Ain’t that right, Little Ravager?”

Turns out he doesn’t like that nickname after all. At least, not when it’s being used by someone other than Czar. Yondu spins on the guy heedless of the stretch in his abdomen. He chops him brutally in the throat, fully prepared to re-enact the Jovi incident. But before he can follow through and dig out the man’s reptilian eyes he’s slammed against the nearest scaffold column, hard, ears ringing and spittle flying from his lips.

“Aw,” sneers the prisoner. His windpipe, shielded by his beetleish exoskeleton, remains undamaged. It flexes as he ducks his head to Yondu’s neck and inhales long and deep. “You come out here, stinking of the Badoon’s cum, limping like that… You gettin’ greedy, Udonta? One cock not enough to satisfy you anymore?”

The narrow passage fills with hoots, and more than one mocking wolf-whistle. Those sting most, if only for the reminder of what his own whistles are no longer capable of. Yondu’s jostled, his shoulders smacking on the arms and chests of the prisoners who have to crush him to the bannister pass. The man pinning him smiles. It’s the cold predatory beam of a hawk who’s caught a mouse and is contemplating whether to drop it to its death or rip it apart mid-air.

“You know he ain’t gonna be around to avenge you much longer,” he says. The other prisoners exchange glances, some gleeful, some nervous. But none protest the man’s next words: “I might as well have my fun now. Don’t want the sloppy seconds after everyone else in this place has finished with you.”

Yondu flinches when rough fingers pry between his legs. They’re smacked apart, his attempts to command his muscles about as useless as this whole endeavor – because now he’s gonna get raped for real, in front of everyone, and fuck knows what’ll happen to Quill. Nails dig into the space behind his balls. His perineum feels like it’s on fire, rim stretched far beyond its natural capacity. When the man frowns, digging further beneath him to explore his ass through the cloth, Yondu turns to one side so he doesn’t have to watch the realization spread across his face.

And sees Quill, frozen halfway through donning his scrubbing gear before entering the showerblock. He must’ve heard the commotion on the stairs and looked up. And then… what? Seen Yondu barely able to muster fight, spread wide for whatever man cared to take him?

Yondu’s fists ball of their own accord. Then release when rather than doing something stupid and barging to his rescue, Quill ducks his head and follows the rest of the cleaning crew into the dim-lit service ducts, turning his back on him.

Maybe the kid’s not as dumb as Yondu’s always hoped. He should be grateful Quill’s not gonna endanger himself over this. So why does it feel like he’s lost the one reason he had to fight?

“Check this out,” the prisoner croons. He motions to the guy waiting on the stairs behind him; has him feel over Yondu’s cock to press on the hard lump buried in the circumference of his swollen, bruise-puffed rim. “Guy’s got a stretcher in. No wonder he’s toddling about like he’s been riding dick all week.”

His companion snorts. They paw Yondu over heedless of the flow of prisoners around them, who either ignore the show on the stairwell or congregate where they won’t be blocking traffic to watch. “If he’s prepping for Czar, he’s gonna be too loose for either of us.”

“Damn right,” Yondu manages. “Think hotdogs down hallways…”

“Shut up, bitch.” A hard smack, delivered directly to the plug. Yondu convulses, a full body jolt. He prays the vibrations haven’t ruptured anything inside. His nostrils flare. He has to snort in harsh pants to keep himself from screaming, but loses the will when they grope his stomach, squeezing the plug from the top.

“Damn, that’s a big one,” says guy number one approvingly. He doesn’t notice Yondu struggling in his grip. Just moves him as he likes, pressing his back to the bannister and balancing him on one leg while he lifts his other to give his friend a clear view of the plug, yellow jumpsuit straining over it as if it’s vacuum-packed to Yondu’s skin. “He’ll take both of us at once, I reckon. What d’you think – lug him to a bathroom? Easier to clean up afterwards, there…”

Guy number two grunts his approval. He spanks the plug again, efficiently sadistic. Yondu wails – a single pained note, splintering to wheezes as he wrestles for control of his vocal cords. “He’s still nice and responsive,” continues the more talkative of the two, probing around the toy’s vast base and assessing Yondu’s twitching snarl. “Don’t reckon that’ll last, once Czar’s dead.” Then to Yondu, gathering plump handfuls of ass cheek and kneading them while Yondu clings hatefully to his shoulders: “Hear that, bitch? Forget holding up a stairwell. We’re gonna fuck you into your grave.”

Yondu struggles. He bites and spits and kicks – although ‘kicks’ is rather generous; even the shallowest movement makes his belly contract around the plug to the point of pain. But one thing he doesn’t do, as he’s tossed over the larger of the men’s shoulders in a fireman’s carry that curves his spine in the opposite direction to the shaft inside him, is cry out.

No calls for help. He’d rather save his breath. Ain’t like anyone would listen anyway.

There’s a certainty sinking inside him, one that he’s come to recognize over the past weeks. It’s called helplessness. Before he’d arrived in the Kyln, Yondu’d only suffered under that debilitating weight three times. Once as he was bundled into the offworld spaceship by his own angry people. Once as he watched the fires burning on Alpha Centaurii from his Warbird. And once as he held Peter, aged eight and sickly as a baby bird, face pink as a ripe raspberry.

They’d given him the requisite drug-cocktail given to all interplanetary explorers, which prevented them from wasting away on exposure to the fresh germ-fests each new atmosphere brought. But not even Shi’ar medicine could net every virus. It hadn’t taken long for Quill to succumb to a branch of common Xandarian cold. For Kraglin, the carrier, it had meant a slight snuffle and weepy eyes that Yondu had teased him about relentlessly whenever he dragged his skinny carcass onto the Bridge.

For Quill, it nearly meant death.

High fever; delirium; fits that wracked his body so hard the sweat flew off him like water from a shaking dog.

Doc Mijo had told Yondu that he’d either make it through the night and recover, or never wake again. There was nothing anyone could do for him, but keep him comfortable and wait.

And so Yondu had.

He’d told Kraglin to hold fort, ignoring his pitiful sneezing. He’d stormed through the _Eclector_ ’s gloomy tunnel network with an expression so ferocious that none dared accost him for fear of putting a spark to the taper and signing a death warrant on everyone aboard. And he’d sat at Quill’s bedside for the rest of the night.

Mijo, side-stepping around him as she went about her business, was too wise to comment.

His silent vigil lasted well into the wee hours of the morning. He didn’t hold Quill’s hand – such a tiny hand, so red and hot that all the freckles were eclipsed. But he came close. And, as Yondu popped his third soldier pill to prevent his eyelids creeping together, that hand flexed, opened, and reached for him.

“Yondu,” Quill had slurred. They’d been keeping him hydrated intravenously – easier than sticking a tube down his throat. As a result, his vocals sounded dryer than the desert wastelands of Jakku. Still audible though, if you got close enough. Yondu, barely daring to believe this stroke of a miracle, had leaned until his ear hovered inches from Quill’s flaky lips.

“What?” he croaked.

“You’re real? You’re really here?”

“Yeah, boy.”

“An… an’ what about my mom?”

“Yer momma?”

“Yeah… Look, she’s… She’s right there… Hi, mommy.” Peter’s smile was so tremulous and fragile, Yondu couldn’t bring himself to squash it. He squeezed his fingers until the red flesh pinched white, Peter so dazed and out of it that he didn’t register the discomfort.

“You focus on me,” he said gruffly, tilting Peter’s face so he filled his vision. “Ya can talk to yer mommy later. Ya want her to see you like this? All… all pink, an’ sorry for yerself?” His jagged nails scraped Quill’s cheek, pinching cracked lips into a pout. Peter kept the expression after he was released, leaning into the cool touch.

“But mommy always sits with me when I’m sick. Who’s gonna stay with me if mommy goes?”

Yondu almost cricked his neck in his attempt to subtly and rapidly scope their corner of the medbay. He half-expected to find Doc Mijo and a gang of mutiny-minded interlopers spying on their captain’s rare moment of tenderness. Luckily (for her own continued longevity) Mijo had seen fit to limp away and conduct her business on the other side of the Medbay’s centrepiece: an opaque glass funnel that diverted heat from the engine core up through the heart of the ship, polka-dotted with valves that controlled the medbay’s internal temperature to a quarter of a degree. Yondu and Quill were as good as alone.

Yondu shuffled his chair closer. Then in a fit of irrationality – must’ve taken one too many soldier pills; things were great for keeping you alert but they dissolved your inhibitions like anything else – he dropped a peck on Peter’s damp forehead.

The boy’s fringe, sweat-soaked and ratty, was plastered to his skin. Strands stuck to Yondu’s mouth as he pulled back, more than a little mortified at his display of sentiment. He wiped them off more brusquely than was necessary – but forced himself into gentleness as he smoothed the soggy bangs from Quill’s face.

“Mommy,” said Quill again. This time he stared straight at Yondu.

Oh.

Yondu scowled before he could stop himself, all too aware that while Mijo was out of eyesight, she had yet to leave earshot. Quill’s dopy smile crumpled as he tries to puzzle out what he got wrong. His eyes, fever-bright and misty, irises swallowed by the pupil, skated over Yondu’s bared yellow teeth, his crooked nose, the stubble on his jaw. His thought processes were so sluggish that Yondu could practically see them: trickling through his bloated brain like molasses. As a result, he knew what the boy was about to say before his tongue could coax the words from his parched throat. But there was fuck all he can do to stop it. Yondu resigned himself to that tsunami of helplessness, which crashed over his head with devastating force as Quill said the word that cemented his place in Yondu’s stunted and deformed affections for life.

“Daddy?”

Yondu swallowed. “Captain,” he corrected. Quill ignored him with the ease of the infirm.

“Daddy,” he said again, and snuggled Yondu’s hand where it had dropped onto the blankets at his side. He exuded heat like a small land mammal. It took Yondu’s arm approximately point-five seconds to become too clammy for comfort. But he didn’t pry himself free, not even as Quill intertwined pink fingers with blue and submerged himself in sleep once again, his dry breath breaking over Yondu’s knuckles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Please tell me what a monster I am below.**


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **In which there's a song, an apology, and a fight - not necessarily in that order.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **CRY SOME MORE**

The Kyln has numerous bathrooms, each home to a new depth of grubbiness, germ-infestation, and debauchery. There’s those that are prime grounds for deal-brokering; others are favoured spots for smuggling and drug-trafficking; more still have garnered a reputation for murder and _other things_ , darker things that leave prisoners in dazed huddles in pools of their own blood, unresponsive to calls or kicks…

Yondu suspects that whatever his captors have planned for him, he’ll wind up among that latter group. Then stubbornly shakes that thought away. 

_Unbreakable,_ he tells himself, hands clawing at Bug-man’s back. _They can hurt yer body, but only you can break your mind. Don’t give ‘em that power._ There’s a difference between saying and doing though, and an even larger one between _thinking_ and doing. Yondu can pretend to be invincible right up until the bitter end, but that doesn’t change the fact that he’s about to get fucked. 

Trying to dissuade the men is a Sisyphean effort. Everything he does makes them more excited. His nails squeak on curved shell as he scratches at Bug-man’s bared arms, and his feet beat off the chest of his burly partner as he’s lowered to the ground, stomach-up like a flipped turtle. 

The second guy’s shorter but thicker-set. His hairy belly protrudes from the front of his jumpsuit, grey skin dappled over with grease. He’s unfit: already huffing and swearing from the minor effort of helping Bug-man restrain his blue burden. 

If he were alone, if he were unplugged? Yondu could take him easy. 

But neither of those hypothetical scenarios resemble the one he’s living right now. Yondu’s facing not one enemy but two, he’s arrowless, and he is most definitely plugged. Stuffed to the brim, tensed in expectation of another of those awful, grinding internal tears, like the one that’d seared through his abdomen when Czar plowed his fingers into him, ignoring Yondu’s ragged pleas for him to stop... 

…Yondu can’t think about that. Not now. Yes, Czar’s an asshole. Yes, he hurts Yondu when he feels like it. But – and perhaps it’s that damn Stockholm Syndrome talking – Yondu convinces himself that no matter the humiliations Czar plies from his resisting body, it’s never as awful as this. 

Belly-man forces Yondu’s legs apart, splitting them like two halves of a peapod. He drives his foot up between. His toes ram the plug’s bulbous base. Yondu howls – an animal, inarticulate noise. His attempt to rise and put up something, _anything_ resembling a fight, dissolves into shivering agony. It’s all he can do clap one hand over his mouth, the other snaking down to cup his half-mast erection in the futile prayer that they might not notice. 

“Aw,” Belly mocks, heel tapping out a brutal fanfare-rhythm that has Yondu spasming and twitching, legs hitching wider whenever his prostate is squeezed. “Ain’t that cute. Lil’ Ravager doesn’t wanna cum?” 

Lil’ Ravager does not. But he isn’t going to have a choice if Belly doesn’t stop milking his prostate: foot flexing the toy in sharp jolts that burst like supernovae across Yondu’s synapses. The globes of his ass quiver as Bug hunkers down, pushing Belly’s dirty foot away with a sneer, and roughly unzips Yondu front to back. His wolf-whistle bites Yondu’s eardrums. “Oh yeah. Looks even better like dis.” 

The plug squelches whenever it’s shifted, thick lube slurping inside Yondu’s overstuffed rim. None escapes him though. Not today. He’s too full for that: ass stretched thin and watertight around that immense weight. 

That changes, when they start to pull it out. 

Yondu scrabbles at their wrists. “Hey, hey! Don’tchu know what Czar’ll do to ya if he finds out…” 

“Then he better not find out,” Bug growls, twisting the toy like a corkscrew. “Right, Lil’ Ravager?” It slithers another inch out of him, his asshole distending along its length, muscles helplessly clutching the silicone. 

Yondu seethes, face furious navy. “What, ya think I’mma just letcha get away with this?” How much of a bitch do they think he is? Bug’s smirk informs him of the answer: _one hell of one_. 

“You a snitch as well as a slut?” Belly kneels over him, straddling his neck, prick weighing on Yondu’s lips through the front of his jumpsuit. He’s so heavy that Yondu has to twist his head to avoid squashing his windpipe, teeth grazing the man’s grungy zipper. “How the fuck did a piece of shit like you ever make it as a Ravager captain? Always thought them guys were tough…” 

He’s got a point. Not about the toughness; Yondu’s amply assured of his own badassery, and that of his men. But there’s no way Yondu’s gonna go whinge to Czar about getting fucked. How would he even start that conversation? _Hey, I just got raped. Might wanna check me for diseases before you do the same._

Yondu snorts a laugh against sour-smelling fabric. Yeah, no. Sure Czar’d kill these worms – but then what? He’s interested in Yondu because of his rep, because of who he is. Would he still want Yondu if he knew he’d been shamed like this: other men groping and pawing at him, digging fingers in besides the narrowing plug-shaft to tug and toy with his stretchy rim? 

Their deal is all-important. It’s what keeps Peter safe. Yondu knows that if he complains, Czar’ll remind him that that deal was made in Peter’s name only. No – the only way out is to take what he’s given and plot how to butcher these jackasses in his own sweet time. By the end of the week they’ll be joining that Kogar freak in the Kyln’s stinking bilges... 

…Although as it turns out, Kogar isn’t there anymore. 

The alarm explodes with force of a fusion cannon. For a moment Yondu thinks the noise is coming from inside his own head as Bug’s fingers linger inside of him, trapped between his rim and the slimy black length. 

“The fuck’s that?” 

“Dunno – someone musta done somethin’ stupid…” Belly rolls off Yondu’s throat, leaving him to gag and cough. He grumpily rubs his erection, palming it with sweating hairy hands. “Think we got enough time for a quick round with Udonta before they start roll-call?” 

Bug shrugs. “One way to find out.” The toy slithers another wet centimetre towards freedom. Now its flared end has popped free the outwards passage is embarrassingly easy, body expelling it into Bug’s hands. Yondu tries to resist, tries to hold it inside, anything to prevent that last barrier between him and their cocks vanishing. But his channel’s too pliant, like a steak left under the tenderizing mallet. 

He wishes Czar hadn’t washed him out so thoroughly. These creeps wouldn’t be so insistent on fucking him if he were leaking shit as well as sweet-smelling lube. 

He cringes when the toy plops free. His stomach feels gouged open and raw. The sensation of emptiness is almost breath-taking; Yondu’s exhale stutters from his lungs, and he struggles to clamp his legs together, straining against Bug’s hold. Anything to prevent that awful surgical feeling of being laid open, vulnerable and gaping as a vivisectioned rat. 

“Aw,” Belly croons, resting oily fingers on Yondu’s cheek as he positions himself, Bug struggling from his jumpsuit behind. Overhead, the alarm beacons flash: ordering everyone to return to their allotted cells and lay facedown with their hands above their heads. “Don’t cry, lil Ravager. Not long before you’re full again.” 

This is it. This is the last chance he’s gonna get. 

“I ain’t crying,” says Yondu. He sucks those digits into his mouth and crunches through the blubbery flesh until teeth hit bone. 

Belly’s screech almost drowns out the sirens. Yondu doesn’t release him; he shakes his head from side to side, worrying like a dog. His incisors find the softer divots between Belly’s knuckles. Belly’s flailing attempts to pull to freedom succeed. The tension goes slack. The shrieks continue though, up to and after Yondu spits the fingers to splatter on the cold bog-room floor. 

Bug’s grip on his legs has loosened in shock. Yondu scrabbles back, wriggling like a ferret, kicking and scratching and snarling. The pain between his legs fades as desperation takes over, booting his muscles into overdrive. 

Usually he can control that surge. Hone the energy into vicious punches; stop his co-ordination falling apart like a drunk trying to perform pirouettes. But this ain’t exactly a situation he’s ever faced before. Yondu doesn’t have time to deflect the rush of adrenaline, and the few hits he manage to land are more flails, easily batted aside as Bug gets over his initial horror and rises to restrain him, kicking Belly out the way. 

The plug lays discarded and forlorn, a black anaconda fresh off a taxidermist’s table. Yondu’s eyes glance to it, brain firing a clutter of thoughts that his flight-filled mind flounders to shuffle and categorize. 

He has to retrieve it. 

He has to fill himself again before Czar finds him, else he’ll be hurt worse than anything these bastards could’ve wrought. But he can’t. There’s no time. Space opens between him and Bug – Belly still bawling, clutching his mutilated hand as yellow blood squirts across the tiles. Yondu should use this chance. Scarper. Find Peter, get to Bela’s cell, assume the position, wait for a guard to log him. He can deal with the plug later. 

Especially as this alarm may well be signalling Kogar’s discovery. And as Czar is yet-to-be-murdered, that means Yondu’s out of time. 

“Shit,” he hisses, forcing his fists to relax to the point while the tendons aren’t borderline snapping. “Shit-shit-shit…” 

“All prisoners, return to your cells!” Yondu’s so twitchy that he jumps at the harsh intonation, which blares without warning over the comms. Bug, pale lips peeling from rotten black gums, snarls and lunges forwards. 

“I’m gonna kill ya, bitch!” 

Yondu dodges by the skin of his neck, quite literally. Bug’s palm drags across his nape. It doesn’t latch on. The shell-like casing that covers him head-to-foot leaves a nasty scrape, but Yondu’s too high to notice. He’s free – for now. 

How much longer that’ll last, he doesn’t dare guess. 

Luckily he doesn’t have to. Amid the rotating flashes of red light from the alarm, brighter than that streaming his implant and eyes, the shadow of the bog-block door lengthens abnormally as it’s kicked open hard enough to rattle off its hinges. 

“Yondu!” Bela roars. 

She’s a smart lass. Even disorientated by the lights, the burbling squeals from Belly, and the sirens that ring around the inside of the Kyln like the cacophonous squawking of a million tone-deaf parrots, it doesn’t take her a moment to piece together the scene before her. 

Yondu, wide-eyed and dishevelled, mouth sticky with blood. 

One man bowed over his shorn-short fingers, burbling like an infant. 

The other, his zipper still down, cock starting to limpen as his blood’s diverted to muscles more effective for wrestling. 

And the plug, of course. Her eyes thin. 

Bug lowers his shoulders and charges. Bela bats him away. He’s a fly to her; her blow punches him through the wall with a crunch and a puff of powdery dust, as the recorded voice issues its demands again from the overhead intercom: “All prisoners return to your cells! Non-compliance will not be tolerated!” 

Ignoring Bug as he pries himself from the dent, twizzles in a circle, and collapses face-first in a puddle of week-old urine, Bela waves Yondu towards her. “Here. Now.” His left side’s coated in the fine shreds of insulation, which billow from the busted wall in musty clouds. Yondu takes a small step in the identified direction. Then freezes, glancing at the plug. Bela sighs. “Sit on it then. Hurry. Czar’s followers are expected to set an example; if we ain’t back in our cell by the time the inspector reaches top deck…” She trails off. Yondu nods, understanding the need for haste – although waiting for an inspector is the last thing he wants to be doing, if it’s him they’re after. 

He jogs to the plug, hating the loose, damp squish of his channel. Touching the silicone, still-warm and wet from his lube-soaked innards, makes him shudder. Holding it is worse. But he’s got to do this; there’s no choice. He fumbles to position under himself, squatting in a mimicry of how he’d taken the shaft on its first slim setting, so many nights before. 

It takes effort to absorb those thick inches. Yondu’s tense and nervous; he bites his fist to stop himself whimpering. Belly laughs, teeth bared, blood slicking him wrist to elbow. “Still a bitch, Udonta. Just you wait til this big dyke ain’t around to protect ya –“ 

Bela effortlessly gives him Bug’s treatment. She marches across the floor, heedless of the various liquids of unmentionable nature that’re mulching through her soft prison-shoes. Kneeling besides Yondu, she strokes his forehead as Yondu had stroked that of a fevered child seven-odd years ago: at once tender and awkward. “I can help,” she says, motioning to the toy. “If ya like.” 

They don’t have long. Bela oughta to ram him down on the damn thing, or haul him over her shoulder with half of it wedged outside his ass. But she’s feigning patience, as if they’ve got time to spare. Yondu’s infinitely grateful. He nods, burying his face in her shoulder, and wraps his arms around her without prompting. She gathers him onto her lap, heartbeat a soothing slow pulse in contrast to the frenzied pound of blood between his ears. Her beaky nose gouges his collarbone as she exerts a smooth, unyielding pressure on the base. 

She must be able to feel him shivering. But she doesn’t comment. Even when Yondu’s teeth, stained gold with Belly’s blood, graze her shoulder, she doesn’t protest. Just holds him tighter, more secure, and eases him full with such tenderness Yondu has to keep his face pressed into her neck several seconds after the pain’s ebbed to its usual dull throb. 

Bela doesn’t mention the dampness seeping through her collar either. All she does is hum – the faint but intimately familiar tune of _Moonage Daydream_. Listening to it is like injecting pure morphine. Yondu lolls over her, not quite summoning the wherewithal to sprawl, and whistles quietly along. 

The notes are mournful without the addition of an arrow capering around his head, or a Terran by his side. 

“C’mon,” she says softly, after a whole minute’s elapsed. “We gotta go now. Else we’ll get Czar into trouble.” 

Yondu’s far beyond ‘getting Czar into trouble’. But right now, it’s easier to let Bela shuffle him round and zip up his jumpsuit, hoisting him into her arms before loping for the exit. She ignores the two goons, contorted and unconscious in the filth where they belong. Yondu pays them similar attention. They can face the consequences for skipping this curfew once they’re out the infirmary. 

“Quill,” he croaks, because that’s what’s most important. “Where’s Quill?” 

Bela’s nose scrunches. There’s a lot of it, and she only answers once her nostrils have completed their angry flare. As a result, Yondu has plenty of time to mull over the half-billion atrocities that could’ve been enacted on Quill’s small freckled body while he was out-of-action, before she reassures him with a curt: “In our room. Safe.” 

Yondu doesn’t say ‘thank fuck’. But he thinks it, and flops back on her chest so his cheek squishes on her shoulder. A rumbly noise exudes from the back of her throat, somewhere between exasperated and fond, and Bela makes a rare addendum to those bare bones of comfort she’s afforded him. 

“He told me where to find you.” 

Oh. Yondu doesn’t know how that makes him feel – if he’s glad Quill fetched help rather than leaving him to Bug and Belly’s mercy, or if he’s pissed it took him so damn long. Especially when Yondu’s done so much for him. But whether it’s stopping his boys from eating him or selling himself so Quill can walk out the Kyln with his head held high, the brat’s never been the most grateful. Yondu’s not experienced enough in dealing with kids to know whether this sort of boorishness is to be expected, or whether he has the right to feel hurt. 

No. _Angry_ , not _hurt_. It didn’t _hurt_ watching Quill walk away from him. Maybe if Yondu keeps telling himself that he’ll believe it. 

The guards wave them impatiently to join the rest of the prisoners flocking for the stairs. As last in line, more than one baton smacks off Bela’s forearms and thighs. Her status as Czar’s most-trusted evidently doesn’t earn her much eminence when the prison’s in lock-down: yet more proof of Yondu’s point, that all Czar’s powers are illusory. Now isn’t the time for political pontification though. Bela’s large enough to absorb the blows without any tell other than the tightening of her jaw. When one particularly sadistic specimen tries to ram his shockstick into Yondu’s chest she angles him away, catching the brunt of the snapping electric with her bicep. 

But for the most part the guards are too busy herding unruly prisoners to pay Yondu attention. Vay’s nowhere to be seen. What that implies he dreads to guess: perhaps he’s off doing facial recognition on the remains of Kogar’s mulched-down corpse. Yondu just huddles low in Bela’s grip, emergency lights blurring their differing skintones with waxy red, and wonders what he’ll say to Peter. 

*** 

Nothing, as it turns out. He doesn’t get the chance. 

“Yondu!” Quill runs to him as soon as Bela pops the lock on their door. His face is shrewish with worry. “Yondu, man – buddy – captain – I’m so sorry. You gotta believe me. I should never have left you like that –“ 

He shouldn’t have. But he regrets it, and he’s safe – that’s more than enough to make this worthwhile. 

Yondu nods for Bela to put him down. Quill hovers in his peripherals, uncertain about taking the next step – so Yondu makes the decision for him, before the inspector clatters onto their hallway and begins peering through the greasy cell windows and counting off names. 

He pulls Quill into a tight hug. 

There’s a hard knobble bulging from Yondu’s abdomen, where the head of the plug distends his soft pouch-flesh. Holding Quill should probably hurt. But right now all Yondu can muster is relief. Relief that he survived – but moreso: that Quill’s okay, and that Quill’s reciprocating the embrace, his thin arms looping over Yondu’s shoulders. 

“Don’t’chu ever scare me like that again,” he warns, finishing with a ruffle of tousled ginger hair as a guard taps warningly on their door. Quill’s smile is squirmy and small and perfect. 

“Or you’ll eat me, right?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **So, do you hate me? Love me? Tell me below.**


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **enemaenamaenema**

It doesn’t take long for the whispers to reach them. _A butchered guard. Done by a prisoner, you think, or one of their own? Shit – someone’s gotta pay._

The inmates are kept on lockdown, but the guards sneer at bringing them room service, or hosing down their cells after they’ve messed them. Plus there’s these little things called _Interstellar Accords of Rights for Sentient Beings_ , so they’re allowed out three times a day to nourish themselves and use the bathrooms. 

Yondu has a certain amount of trouble with that last one. Not just because he’s taking his break from his final plug, ass tender and well-stretched. More that whenever he feels tile under his feet he remembers what happened the last time he was in such a place. 

_Take him to the bogs. Easier to clean up, there…_

Just being a wuss, he tells himself, forcing himself to stagger to the urinals and unzip before the pain in his bladder reaches dangerous levels. Last thing he needs is to put _more_ undue stress on his innards. 

…Although, on that note, today’s the day. 

The day Kogar’s found. The day Yondu promised he’d end Czar’s life. The day Czar promised to fuck him. 

Spotting him at mess is an awkward affair. “Hello,” says Czar. He breaks from a quiet conversation with one of the guards – no doubt on the subject of their latest drain blockage – to lope over, green muscle rippling in the glaring lights. He examines Yondu’s bowl. It’s filled with green-grey nutrient sludge that tastes of parsnips and sadness. “You shouldn’t eat. Not yet. I’ll save something for you tonight.” Before Yondu can protest – or his stomach grumble – the meagre meal’s plucked away. “Give this to the boy,” Czar orders, passing it to Bela. “He needs nourishment to grow big and strong.” 

Peter eagerly takes the offering, although he glowers at Czar the whole time: a paradox as endearing as it’s childish. Yondu, in contrast, turns deep navy. His empty hand lingers midair far longer than it ought. His palm’s chilled from the bowl’s insulator plastic. But Czar’s fingers brushed his as they relieved him of it, and that pressure makes Yondu’s heart lurch about in his throat like a bouncing rabbit. 

Czar, giving up on getting a coherent response from him, tips Bela a nod and heads for the stairs. Yondu blurts before he can stop himself – “Why don’tcha eat with us?” Then, because that sounds far too needy – “Think yer above this? Mister High‘n’Mighty doesn’t wanna eat with his bitches?” 

Not that Peter’s included in that category, or ever will be. A boot to Yondu’s shin enunciates the point – which Yondu returns, glowering jealously as Quill polishes off the portion that’s rightfully his. 

Meanwhile Czar pauses with one foot on the step, elevating a muscular thigh that’s far too wide to cram underneath the narrow benches in the Kyln’s social area. That’s Yondu’s question answered. But Czar sees fit to elaborate – “I have business with the Warden. Afterwards…” That stoic stare contains a little more heat than usual. Read: a lot. Yondu’s heard of ‘undressing people with your eyes’, but he’s never felt like each layer’s being peeled delicately away, jumpsuit and skin and muscle, until Czar’s eyes can parse him to the core. He flushes impossibly darker, feeling like he’s about to melt in his shoes, and prays Peter’s too busy shovelling food into his mouth to notice. “Afterwards,” Czar purrs, “I will come to fetch you, Little Ravager. And you will learn how good a master I can be.” 

Suffice to say, Yondu doesn’t pay much attention to Peter’s stilted attempts at conversation for the rest of their one-sided meal. He’s too busy pressing his legs together to hide his filling erection. 

Bela, from the knowing glance down then off to the side, has him sussed. Yondu hastily crams his legs under the table, bowing over himself and claiming stomach upset when Peter asks. How the kid can be smart enough to guess why he’s fasting – because he doesn’t offer Yondu any of his pilfered bowl, although admittedly, that could be sheer greediness – but not enough to wise up as to why Yondu’d be hiding a tent in his pants after Czar promises to fuck him brainless, Yondu has no idea. He focusses on Bela instead. 

Bela. Big ol’ Bela. Big ol’ Bela who he hasn’t talked to since she pawned him off on Peter last night, then stalked into the room next door to hypothesize on the cause of the alarm with Czar. “You didn’t tell him, didya?” he asks, quietly. 

Bela doesn’t need to ask. “I did not. It’s your choice. Although I believe…” 

She trails off and scoops spoonfuls of doughy paste faster into her mouth, as if to compensate for the words. Yondu clutches his tummy to stop it rumbling. “What?” 

Bela doesn’t look at him. But she does reply – albeit garbled between mouthfuls. “He does care for you, y’know. He would… understand.” 

Yeah, no. Yondu’s not gonna go whinge. He’s dealing with this the man’s way, the Ravagers’ way – bundle it up, shove it under the nearest carpet, pretend it never happened. Perhaps he’d think differently if the men had actually followed through with the threat. But as things stand, Yondu really ain’t got cause to complain. He wasn’t _actually_ raped, was he? Nothing penetrated his ass besides an unwanted finger. Really, he tells himself, glaring at the empty placemat before him, even if he did go crying to Czar, he’d just be told to suck it up and deal. 

As a result, when Czar stomps back down the stairs, dark expression banished fleetingly when his eyes alight on Yondu, Yondu doesn’t holler and claw at his arms as he’s dragged not in the direction of their cell but the nearest showerblock. 

“Catch ya later, Pete,” he throws back over his shoulder. Peter studiously buries his face in his half-finished seconds and ignores him. Yondu turns his attention up the large green arm slung over his shoulders, steering him with the ease of a rudder. “Uh, Czar? Can’t we just… I dunno, go at it? You’ve had me fastin’ and stuff…” 

Czar notices the way he shrinks from the door of the showerblock, if his renewed scowl is any indication. He’s probably just been chewed out by the warden, and ordered to use his contacts to comb the prisoners’ ranks and establish the murderer. He must’ve been hoping to return to a pliant and subservient bitch, who’d roll over and present themselves without further coaxing necessary. 

But Yondu ain’t that bitch. Hasn’t ever been – and certainly not today. 

“You don’t enjoy being douched?” Czar seems oblivious to the everpresent flux of curious stares over their backs. He punctuates the last word with perfect eloquence, the syllables dripping from his tongue, and Yondu sees more than one onlooker snigger. 

“I just,” he says, then pauses. He wars between snapping and shouting at Czar because _can’t he just take no for an answer_ or stammering out a plea that he’d usually never give outside the privacy of Czar’s quarters. “I dunno. I ain’t in the mood…” 

Czar’s expression firms. He nods decisively. “I shall get you in it then,” he says, and Yondu’s picked up and bodily lugged for the bathroom – _again_ – when his feet fail to comply. 

*** 

He’s deposited on the tiles with relative gentleness. It’s been a while since the last shower-session, and the steam has cleared enough for Yondu to scope the confines of the room, from the sloped ceilings to those dimpled floor-grates that gleam with damp promise: access to an untold subterranean kingdom of pipes and potential freedom. 

Which also means Yondu can’t blinker himself with amber-glowing clouds and pretend he’s somewhere else, far away. 

He’s rubbing the scrape on the back of his neck again. And shivering – although he only notices when Czar tugs at his wrist, transferring his touch to the firm abdomen before him, encouraging him to stroke down towards the rising turgidity at Czar’s groin. It’s an anchor, a reminder of who he’s with. Yondu’s grateful. But the next moment that anchor breaks away. Czar crosses to his personal locker, pops the door, and produces the enema with a flourish any magician would be proud of. 

Yondu fights to look anything other than nauseous. “Awright,” he mutters, more to himself than anyone. “You can do this.” 

Czar squints. His eager presentation of the nozzle lowers, the baggie drooping over his arm like the deflated head-sac of a squid. “Are you… afraid?” 

_Yes. But not of you_. Yondu can’t say that though; he forces his grin wider, until the edges feel they must be crimping his ears. “Nah, just chilly. C’mere and stick it in me.” Czar crosses the space between them in an easy lope. Yondu claws his way out of his jumpsuit, meeting Czar’s eyes with a challenge he doesn’t feel, and kneels on the slabs of pewter, facing away. The grouting pinches his shins as he hikes his ass skywards. “Geddon with it, wouldya?” 

Like this, he can focus on the dark slats of the grill in front of him. He expends his mental processes on plotting escape, rather than crumbling into the chasm of panic that threatens to swallow him when Czar’s hands land flat on each cheek, spreading him with gusto. The stretch of his channel is electrifying. His rim’s elastic, bulging slightly out of itself in a navy rosette as Czar manipulates his buttocks. But while Yondu’d like to lose himself in exhilaration, if he gives up control now, in this situation, he’ll be swept away by something else entirely. 

He doesn’t know what clues Czar in. Perhaps he’s breathing too high and too fast, heartbeat a frenzied flutter when one of those massive palms skids round to grope his chest, pinching his pectorals between finger and thumb. Maybe he’s not reacting as expected: pushing back, wriggling his ass like he’s trying to quest out Czar’s dick and fuck himself full. 

Their dry skin tacks and scrapes. Czar smooths up and down his lower back, massaging the tense muscles in a futile attempt at getting them to unwind. Then stops. 

The moment of stillness lags into eternity. Then everything comes crashing down. 

Yondu shudders as fingers dabble over the slice on the back of his neck. Czar reaches through the shivering arch of his legs and finds him hanging soft. The nails painting swirls around each of Yondu’s cervical vertebrae suddenly gouge in, and a snarl contorts his voice as he asks: 

“Who hurt you?” 

Yondu’s eyes are stinging, for some reason. He doesn’t know why. The pain in his neck ain’t nothing spectacular – ached worse when Bug put it there, after Yondu’s adrenaline had receded enough to let him feel it. He suspects the sudden, traitorous moisture might have more to do with the enema, whose nozzle slips inside him with breathtaking ease, two of Czar’s fingers besides. He guides it up inside him, deep into his body. While those digits don’t explore further than the second knuckle, Yondu’s struck by the thought of him sat fully on Czar’s hand, like a hollow children’s puppet at a Xandarian festival. 

“No matter,” growls Czar, opening digits and Yondu alike. “I will claim you again. By the time I’m through, you won’t remember their touch.” 

That statement ought to make Yondu grimace. Make him balk and snap at the mere thought that his ass is a piece of property, and when one master’s name is smudged, it must be rewritten to restake their ownership. 

It certainly shouldn’t make him relieved. 

The pipe of the enema weighs on his rim, dragging the pliant flesh down. Czar has to grab the squeezable bag before the whole contraption slithers out of him again, anal muscles too soft to clutch. “Look at this,” Czar says, stirring fingers and nozzle inside him. His voice is marvelling, revenant. “You’re clenching around me, like you want to drag me further in. But you’re so tender back here… You can only take what I give you and plead for more.” 

“Thanks for the runnin’ commentary.” A clunk, followed by a promising gurgle. Czar must’ve started one of the showers. Yondu’s ears track his motions as he fills the bag, a swollen sac that emulates how Yondu’s stomach’s gonna look in a couple of minutes. Each wet splat as the showerhead jet misses its mark and impacts on the tiles makes him twitch. At least the water’s warm. He can feel it pooling under him, drawn towards the drain by the camber of the floor. When Czar squeezes the bag and the first squirt of water enters his guts, Yondu drops his head to dangle between his shoulders and groans. 

Right now, he can hardly tense his muscles. Dirty water slops out of him regardless of his efforts to hold it inside, the pressure in his gut offset by the ease with which this first filling cascades from his ass. It takes Czar a number of tries to get him properly stuffed. By that point Yondu’s migrated to his elbows, forehead thunking off the floor as Czar roughly palms his dangling gut. Eventually though, he can’t take any more. Water splurts from his asshole when Czar squeezes down. It erupts around the nozzle, which is still buried within him like the centrepiece of a fountain. Czar’s quiet huff of amusement makes shame and arousal burn on Yondu’s face; he struggles to hoist his ass higher, let artificial gravity do its work and hold it inside. 

When the nozzle plops free though, he can’t help himself. 

Yondu whines as his belly gurgles, intestines saturated and stuffed. Then chokes on the noise as a hot dribble works its way from his body. 

“Come on,” says Czar softly. He nudges him to squat over the drain, Yondu shaking with the effort of holding off the void. Then pats his inflated paunch, making Yondu’s thighs jerk and his nose scrunch. “Let it out, Little Ravager. That’s it. Good boy.” 

It takes three insertions for the water to run clean. By that time Yondu feels washed out – figuratively as well as literally. He slumps forwards, face pressed to Czar’s chest, and lets the final load collapse out of him while Czar kisses the top of his implant and strokes his longest scar up and down, nape to tailbone and back again. 

They stay like that long after Yondu’s spent. His stomach aches. Hunger and the strain of going from full to empty so rapidly. But he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t yearning for more. He’s first to shift. Czar’s arms must be falling asleep from holding his weight at an awkward angle, but the big guy doesn’t complain. Just shakes them out, wincing, once he’s sure Yondu’s strong enough to kneel on his own. 

“Are you ready?” he asks. Yondu, rocking up to allow him to trace his soft perineum and delve inside his soaked ass, glances to the erection bridging the distance between them. For the first time, its proportions don’t seem daunting. Monstrous, yes. Borderline comical, absolutely. But scary? No. Yondu’s mind is in a strange place: mellow and blissed-out. He wonders if he’ll even need the Hawker’s potion to ease the way. 

…First though, there’s something Czar ought to know. 

“Czar?” he says, voice cracking around the word. Czar nuzzles close, suckling at Yondu’s throat. His frown is a brand on his skin, hotter than any scar Bug could leave. Can he smell the other men on him? Who the fuck knows what Badoon are capable of. But Yondu ain’t here to snitch on his would-be rapists: he’ll deal with them in his own time. “Czar, I gotta talk to you.” 

*** 

“What did you do?” 

“I chopped him into bits and flushed ‘em down the loo.” 

“You did _what?_ ” 

“I chopped him into bits an’ –“ 

“I heard. Please tell me you’re joking.” 

Yondu shrugs. “What? He was pissin’ me off!” Kogar’s ambitions regarding a certain Terran are need-to-know. 

Czar groans, expression spasming between shock and fury. But he doesn’t push Yondu away. “You,” he says, each word heavy as a dropped anvil, “are far more trouble than you’re worth.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **I'm so tired guys**


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Hubba hubba, have some plot.**

“What, go see his Royal Jackassness now?” Yondu, in the midst of struggling into his jumpsuit and feeling like he’s wrestling a yellow boa constrictor, blinks at Czar, unsure if he’s heard correctly. “Don’t you… Oh, I dunno, wanna claim on our deal first?”

Not that he _wants_ Czar to claim on it or anything. Just. The big guys’s put in a helluva lot of work to sabotage it all over one dead guard. Yondu can’t have him thinking he hasn’t gotten his money’s worth. 

“Better sooner rather than later.” Czar, grimacing at the cock swinging full-blooded and heavy over his abdomen, dials the shower past ‘cold’ and into ‘necrosifying’. Yondu jumps backwards to avoid being sprayed. 

“Uh. So. What’s the Warden gonna do to me after I come clean?” 

“Nothing much.” Czar sighs, giving his waning erection a farewell tug as icy water sluices his torso. “The Warden allows me to handle my own discipline.” 

That’s not especially reassuring. Yondu asks again, feigning joviality: “What’re _you_ gonna do to me then?” 

The shower sputters out its last. Czar turns his drenched bald head to the lights above, each droplet a bead of amber that clings to his skin. “I have yet to decide,” comes the somber reply. Yondu doesn’t dare push him further. 

*** 

Yondu trots after Czar to the watchtower like a scolded dog. There’s a fair walk ahead of him; he’s grateful Czar’s left him unplugged for the duration. 

The warden’s office is situated in the firmament of the prison, between the swooping arches and blunt-hewn buttresses that form the Kyln’s corrugated roof. (Or base. Or side. ‘Up’ and ‘down’ are, after all, semantics when gravity has no meaning.) As such, it can’t be accessed by your bog-standard detainee: even Czar has to present himself at the watchtower, submit to himself and his companion being swept with high-powered Nova scanners for weapons, recording devices, or any other such hints of nefarious business, and stoically wait to be granted permission for an audience. 

Yondu lurks at Czar’s elbow for the duration. He still feels damp under his clothes, and it doesn’t take him long to tune out the conversation, as Czar’s interrogated as to the purpose of his visit. He shifts foot-to-foot, wincing as his jumpsuit grazes, while the negotiation continues around him. 

It’s still weird. Still gross, still horrendously, disturbingly exciting. The constant distraction weighs on Yondu’s frazzled nerves, even as Czar makes the necessary accommodations to gain access to the office that is soon to become a confessional box. 

Perhaps a confessional box is a poor metaphor. After all, isn’t the purpose of those that you be granted forgiveness? 

Yondu doubts he’ll find any of that. This is a dire situation through and through, yet he can’t give it the full attention or trepidation it deserves. Not when he’s unplugged and empty, dizzy from hunger and excavated so thoroughly that he’s longing for a thick rod – a plug, a cock, anything – to fill him up. 

“This better be over quick,” he hisses to Czar, dragging on his elbow as they’re escorted past the goggling inmates towards the central gate. 

Czar’s glance down at him is all too knowing. “Eager,” is all he says. Then, after a short considering pause that makes Yondu’s lips curl back from his teeth: “I like it.” 

The gate is a titanic slab of steel, so wide it could be mistaken for the hull of a passing Nova galleon. It’s the main point of exodus; should there ever be a fire on the main prison floor, this route will be transformed into a massive corral, herding the prisoners into station’s evacuation centre. 

Czar and Yondu aren’t leaving through there, of course. Opening a door that large would only incite a riot. No matter how slim the chances of escape, should the guards outside the central panopticon be faced by anything short of a full-scale organized assault, there’ll always be some willing to take the chance, and more will invariably follow. But there’s small doors on either side, pock-marking the wall like the hexagonal pores in a honeycomb, and it’s those Yondu finds himself steered towards. 

Quill and Bela are among the crowd lining up to be assigned scrub hours – whether or not a dead guard’s been found, a prison this big doesn’t clean itself. They don’t turn to watch the commotion caused by Czar and Yondu’s passage, too busy trying to catch the attention of the on-duty guard. 

Yondu’s glad. His soft plush hole rubs on the inside of his pants: a startling jolt of vulnerability that ebbs and swells with every step. He finds himself stumbling more than once, clinging to Czar’s sleeve for support, and has to glare at his feet and bite his tongue to stop himself snapping and ordering him to wipe that smug smirk off his stupid green face. 

*** 

Yondu doesn’t know what he expected the Kyln warden to look like. This wasn’t it. For a start, he’s not fat, and he’s not eating a doughnut. He doesn’t even have a moustache. 

He elbows Czar in the ribs. Well – more like the hip, given their height difference. “He doesn’t have a moustache,” he says, out of the corner of his mouth. Czar gives him a look. 

“Of course he doesn’t. He’s Kronan. They don’t cultivate body hair.” 

“You ain’t never watched a Terran cop-movie, have ya?” Yondu’d learnt early on that the easiest way to halt an impending tantrum was to distract Quill with moving pictures. While Xandar did boast comparable forms of visual entertainment, Peter always insisted his Terran filmography was above and beyond anything produced in the Andromeda galaxy – prompting Yondu to divert his M-ship Terra-ways while on a solo mission in the Silver Spiral and steal a bunch from the Terrans’ new-fangled _interweb_ so he could prove him wrong. 

(The experience had been enlightening. Quill had given him a massive, unrequited hug and thanked him so earnestly that Yondu had completely forgotten to tell him that he’d only acquired the movies out of competitiveness.) 

“Quit wasting time,” snaps the Warden, glowering at Yondu over his bottle-bottom glasses. “Get to the point.” They’re stood before a transparent forcefield that bisects the Warden’s office neatly in two, creating ample space for him to hold audiences with prisoners. The guards evidently trust this defence; they’ve migrated past the Warden’s vacuum-sealing doors, out of earshot but only a buzzer and a warning beacon away. If the Warden thumps the panic button under his desk, Yondu and Czar will be dogpiled and tazered into the floor before they can take their next breath. 

Yondu, ignoring his order, tips his head in curiosity. He’s never seen a _slim_ Kronan before – their species tend to bulk. But this guy probably lives on a diet of concentrated stress, caffeine, and soldier pills. His expression is constantly twitching between haggard and harried, and while he gestures impatiently for Czar to state his business his other hand taps at a holographic keypad, shooting messages throughout the Kyln’s comm rig at a rate that’d make a stockbroker jealous. His glasses, when Yondu steps up to the forcefield’s flickering edge to take a closer look, are actually multi-layered scan-lenses; compounded like a bug’s eyes so he can watch every security feed at once. 

“What?” he asks again, before Czar’s mouth can fully open. “Don’t just stand there, boys. Spit it out.” 

If Czar’s embarrassed to be called ‘boy’ in front of his bitch, he doesn’t let on. “I have brought you the culprit,” he says smoothly, hand crushing Yondu’s shoulder like a yoke. All hints of slummy accent have receded. He talks to the Warden like an equal – even if he isn’t afforded the same courtesy in return. “As he belongs to me, I assume our agreement regarding discipline of my people stands.” 

That’s not posed as a question. But the Warden takes it as one anyway. 

“This incident has made the inmates rowdy,” he muses. He gives Yondu only the most cursory of glances, less concerned with his identity than he is with deciding what punishment his crime should reap. “A beating or whipping isn’t going to cut it. Were he an ordinary prisoner, I’d have him executed.” 

Czar must feel Yondu tense; he shifts to stand behind him, a solid bulk at his back that at once bolsters him and stalls any hope of running. The Warden’s verdict arrives after an intense session of steepling his fingers, looking Yondu up and down with about as much satisfaction as a vegan would appraise a chunk of raw meat. His feet tap agitatedly under his desk as he struggles to hone his concentration onto a single problem, rather than multitasking five at a time. 

“Whatever you do to him, I want it to be ugly. And I want it to be public.” 

Czar nods, stunting Yondu’s chance to protest. “Very well,” he says. His frown is so deep it dovetails at the corners, harsh grooves stamped into his cheeks like the chiselled scowl of a gargoyle. The grip on Yondu’s shoulder tightens until the bones creak. “I believe I have just the thing.” 

*** 

Yondu’s not that worried. Perhaps less than he ought to be. Czar won’t kill him, and won’t hurt him to the point of incapacitation – not if it’ll prevent Yondu from taking his meat. In fact, Yondu’s expecting him to pick up on the Warden’s suggestion of a beating, smack him about a bit in front of their fellow inmates, show ‘em what happens if anyone steps out of line. 

So when Czar leads him into Bela’s empty quarters, rumbles “Prepare yourself” and stalks into the room next door to brood in silence, Yondu figures that the deal he’d struck two weeks ago will finally reach fulfilment. There’s only so many ways that sentence can be taken, after all. 

Bela, despite her colossal frame (not that he’d ever say that to her face) doubtlessly still requires a decent amount of lube to fit Czar without chafe. Yondu starts hunting for it, nosing under the loose jiggly panels around the door. When he stumbles across his own loose-pried slab – if Bela’s noticed it, she has yet to confront him – it’s by complete accident; Yondu’s entangled in a half-fantasy, half-nightmare envisioning of Czar’s cock fucking him open, and hardly notices what he’s sifting through until he hears the slosh of liquid. Looking down, he finds himself holding the vial of juice from the Hawker. 

How long’s it take to come into effect? How much is one dose? Do you drink it, or shove it up your ass? Yondu has no answer for any of those questions, and there’s no time to hunt down the Hawker and demand she be more forthcoming. Will he even need it, he wonders? Czar’s been stretching him so often and so well… 

But at the same time, if he’s harbouring resentment over the whole guard-butchery thing, their sex will be when Yondu’s made to regret it. 

Making a snap-decision, he pops the cork and downs it in one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Tell me what you thiiiiiink~ Looking forwards to Czar's punishment, or terrified? Spill all below! ;)**


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Some seriously non!con spanking and exhibitionism! Major warnings for this chappie and the next. x**

In hindsight, that was a dumbass idea.

So Yondu thinks through the fever-haze settling over his mind like a cloud of static, as Czar enters the cell and rolls him onto his back. Yondu’s panting and flushed. His cock’s soft, but leaking enough precum to dampen the front of his prison-garb. When he rubs at it, having been flipped away from the rusty steel floor he’d been grinding against, Czar toes his hand off. He’s scowling. (Or at least Yondu thinks he is. His eyesight’s worse than it is punchdrunk: Czar could be dancing a polka right about now and he’d be none the wiser.) 

“You took a drug?” There’s no mistaking the disappointment in his tone, not even high on… whatever-the-fuck this is. Yondu should be wary. He should snap back, show he ain’t beaten yet, and then nuzzle in close to appease his master. He certainly shouldn’t be even _more_ turned on. 

Czar scoffs and hoists him to carry slung over one shoulder, letting Yondu handle his own humiliation as his hips rock helplessly against thick ropes of muscle. That humiliation only gets worse when Czar carries him outside. Rather than turning for his room, he heads for the stairs. 

Yondu’s view comprises mostly of Czar’s back. And ass. Watching those firm, sculpted cheeks rub as the big guy walks ain’t doing his arousal any favours. But even engrossed as he is in that distraction, he can’t help but notice that things seem eerily… quiet. Silent, almost. As if the Kyln’s holding its breath. 

Steadying himself with a palm on each of Czar’s shoulderblades, Yondu angles up – just far enough to see that every single eye in the place, from guard to inmate to Quill, is trained on him. 

Now, being Admiral of a horde as rowdy and unruly as the Ravagers means Yondu’s a dab hand at acting up to make himself the centre of attention. He can holler and shout and snarl, commanding respect via volume. Or he can whistle and threaten in whispers, which are often far more effective – albeit useless without a yaka-arrow to back them up. However, whenever he hogs the limelight, he always maintains exquisite control. 

This? Czar hauling him about like the spoils of war, parading him in front of a thousand smirking sadists imprisoned for crimes of mass-murder, serial rape, and worse? This is as far from control as it gets. 

The silence persists as Czar descends. His gait is steady, unhurried. Each footfall sends a deep reverberation throbbing out through the steel struts that scaffold the panopticon. To Yondu, they sound like the far-off thumps of cannonfire in atmosphere. Czar doesn’t acknowledge the prisoners to either side of him, who flank him on his journey floorwards in a macabre procession, grinning like ghouls. Just walks, and glares, and pins Yondu to his shoulder when his drugged-up brain flares with sudden panic and he writhes for escape. 

“What’chu doin’?” he hisses. “What is this? Czar?” 

It comes out a garble, but there’s enough earnestness behind his words for the message to sink through. Czar’s response is grimly non-forthcoming. He tightens his grip, no attempts to sooth or placate, and keeps walking. 

Out of all the eyes on him, one set burns the most: Quill, stood before a guard, Bela a pace behind. Those two at least look disturbed by the proceedings. Bela’s too wise to intervene, but Quill has none of her self-preservation. He lurches forwards. “Yondu!” 

He doesn’t get very far. The guard’s arm locks firmly around his throat, drawing him into a stranglehold. 

Yondu sees red. 

“Back the fuck off!” His bellow cracks through the hollow space. The echo, usually lost beneath the rustle of jumpsuit fabric and buzzing hubbub of voices, now tolls clear as a funeral knell. “-The fuck off! –Fuck off! –Off!” Besides that though, there isn’t a whisper. 

The enduring silence is strange. Yondu’d think he’d gone deaf if it weren’t for the pound of his pulse in his ears, the muffled chuckles that follow their passage, and the unshakeable percussive rhythm of Czar’s steps. Peter struggles in the guard’s grip, but only briefly. Yondu would snap at him for surrendering – what’s he taught him about acting _soft?_ But then he sees the depowered shock-stick pressed under his ribs. Irritation compacts into fear and fury. 

“Get away from him,” he spits. “Czar, dammit, ya said he wouldn’t be hurt –“ 

“And he won’t.” They’re the first words Czar has spoken since they left his private floor. Yondu instinctively relaxes. He liquefies over his broad back, the rumble of Czar’s voice leaving his cock a twitching, throbbing mess. Then cusses himself out for being so obvious. “Not if you behave.” 

*** 

‘Behave’, it turns out, means ‘lay still and quiet while I strip you’. Yondu’s uncomfortable behaving like that in private – feels too submissive and unlike himself, to just lay there and let Czar use him without giving as good in return. But in front of this crowd? Like hell is he gonna play the bitch. 

There’s Quill to think of though. Even doped to his implant, Yondu can’t forget that. 

His gaze swims to him, loose as if his eye muscles have snapped and left the balls to roll in their sockets. Quill’s struggling to turn his head, turn away from his ex-captain’s shame as Czar takes his sweet time sliding down the zippers of his jumpsuit, brushing the goosepimpled blue skin beneath so gently Yondu could mistake the gesture for an apology. But the guard clamps him in place, one palm against each temple. Yondu snarls and makes to lunge from the bench he’s been deposited atop of – only to be slammed onto his stomach, ribcage shrieking under the weight of Czar’s fist. 

“Behave,” says the Badoon again, enunciating each syllable. “Or else.” 

_Or else what?_ Quill blinks at him, lashes moist and lips aquiver. His head looks fragile as a bird egg between the guard’s flat hands. If there’s an answer to that question, Yondu doesn’t want to hear it. 

Then the jumpsuit peels away, bringing Yondu’s last defences with it. 

The silence, if anything, gets more oppressive. Yondu struggles to manifest the usual brash shamelessness with which he confronts the galaxy. That damn drink of the Hawker’s has fucked with his head more than he assumed. Rather than faking a languid stretch and letting his audience feast their peepers on his scarred blue body, Yondu bows under the weight of the stares. He curls his knees under himself, shoulders drooping, and glares at the table’s plastic finish, designed for ease of wiping down after a messy meal of a punch-up. 

Yondu wonders which lucky sod’ll get the task of scouring it clean after Czar’s finished with him. 

Then Czar trails fingertips down his back, following the rollercoaster track of his longest scar as it swoops and dives over his vertebrae. All mortification is forgotten. Yondu arches on automatic. He scrambles onto hands and knees, pushing against the digits that settle at his entrance. The first pops inside him with embarrassing ease. The second and third swiftly follow. It’s dry and uncomfortable. Yondu dabbed a lil’ lube up there beforehand, but he was kinda expecting Czar to do most of the prep-work. 

There’s a murmur through the crowd. Damn voyeurs. Yondu, already sweaty and trembling as the Hawker’s mystery-gift saturates his system, can’t process the words. But a glance under his armpit to where Czar stands behind him, stretching him with the patience of a saint, tells him that the big guy ain’t happy about it. 

Of course. He doesn’t like sharing. Sure, half the noises are probably jeers. Snide comments. Laughter, emanating either from those eager to watch a Ravager admiral as he’s publicly reduced to a mewling whore, or those infuriated by the murder of their companion. But there’ll be some endowed with a vicious streak; some – like Bug and Belly – who’ve been harboring dirty thoughts about the Boss’s new bitch. Sure enough, Czar’s expression only darkens as zippers rasp, the crude noise of prisoners taking their pleasure making Yondu cringe low against the table. 

That gets Czar’s attention. Rather than snarling at his fellow inmates he opts to ignore them, focussing on Yondu, and Yondu alone. “You’re far too dry,” he murmurs as he retrieves a lube pot from his pocket. The cap cranks off with a quiet scrape. Czar’s hands leave him for a moment as they scoop a generous cold dollop, and Yondu, unanchored, whines and rocks back before he can help himself. He’s met with a ripple of mocking laughter from their audience. 

Yondu’s forehead drops to smack the cold plastic tabletop. He hates it. Hates knowing that they’re observing his discomfort, enjoying it, using him for their pleasure… It’s a relentless spiral, a self-feeding ouroborus. Yondu quivers and the prisoners sneer, so Yondu shakes all the more in impotent rage, as humiliation and fury wrack every extremity. 

Salvation comes in the form of Czar’s fingers. They keep him full, keep him whole. With his head lodged in this strange, drug-addled space, Yondu fears that without them he’d be forced to acknowledge the ridicule and contempt of those who’ve lined up to watch him fall. He can’t imagine anything worse. Instead, kneeling ass-up with Czar’s broad digits scissoring at his rim, there’s nothing to prevent him from losing his grip on the world. Yondu can float off into a limbo of dreams like a ship left within sucking-distance of the central galactic supermassive. Whining, he nuzzles the palm cupping his prickly jaw. Czar slips a thumb in his mouth, and Yondu suckles it like a teething child, hungry for any form of comfort. His eyes drift shut. He wants to forget where he is, who he is. He wants to be eaten away, dissolved by pleasure, allowed to simply _exist_ , rather than having to front the constant act of hypermasculinity that the galaxy demands from him and he demands from himself… 

He wants Czar, and only Czar. And Czar wants him. 

However, desire has little relevance in a universe where the only way to assuredly acquire something is to _take_ it. Czar can’t make things too intimate between them. Not when his control of the prison hangs in the balance, and definitely not after he’s turned the spotlight on himself and his partner, inviting the entire population of the Kyln to witness their coupling. 

Sure enough, when Yondu’s knees skid on the tabletop, muscles weak with pleasure as blunt digits probe his prostate, he’s not coddled or steadied, or even hoisted back up to a comfortable angle. Czar yanks out his fingers with a messy squelch. He deals him a spank – then, after a split second of contemplation, ten more: fast, brutal, powerful, all of his strength focussed into making Yondu’s blue ass glow. 

Lube slaps his buttocks, trailing between Czar’s fingers like silvery webbing. That cool wetness is a relief as flesh strikes flesh – but only a short-lived one. Yondu’s plowed belly-down. He can’t get his hands under him, or his knees. No chance of escape. Yondu can’t even contemplate it. There’s only Czar and Czar’s paddle-like palm, the two splitting into distinct entities within his addled mind. And the sting in his asscheeks of course, which burn and blister as if they’ve been bared to a furnace. 

Yondu thinks he cries out – a cracking note that doesn’t sound nearly as pissed off as it does in his imagination. 

“That’s it,” growls Czar. “Make some noise, slut.” Somehow, despite the multitudinous stares gouging into him, as innumerable as the stars in the sky, his gaze burns brightest. Yondu squirms beneath it, panting, eyes scrunched shut. The hand strikes again. And again, and again, until Yondu no longer has the strength to yell or angle away. He lurches over the tabletop, taking what he’s given. A reedy moan escapes him when the noise of Czar’s swats crescendo. Blood blossoms under the surface, making his buttocks as puffy as the bruised hole nestled between. They reach a climax: a final punishing blow that leaves Yondu choking and breathless. 

Then, as soon as the spanking began, it ceases. 

Yondu feels bruised head to toe – somewhat illogically, as only his ass has suffered abuse. That furnace is closer now. It’s a veritable inferno, the flames of which lick him lower-back-to-thigh, singeing blue flesh navy. The pain lances his brain in jagged needles. Czar rests one palm casually over the evidence of his brutality, wrenching a yowl, and turns to address the crowd. 

“If this is what I do to one I favour when they disobey,” he says. The words filter into Yondu’s ears like water dripped through cotton wool. “Imagine what I would do to you.” 

And then he makes to haul Yondu up under the armpits and leave. 

He’s cut short by Peter’s terrified squeak, as the guard charges his shockstick enough to have him thrashing against his armoured, insulated front. “Oh no. You’re not going anywhere – not until you’ve seen this through.” He’s in a full-face helmet, as are the rest of his brethren – must be anticipating a riot. But Yondu recognizes his voice. 

Vay. 

Even if Kogar had been the most hated bastard in the place, the guards still wouldn’t stand for the usurpation of their authority. In addition, Vay’s faced more than his share of hassle over the missing man. He might not have shared his predilection for juveniles, but that doesn’t mean he wanted him dead. Yondu’s fuzzy vision coalesces on Peter’s pinched white face. This right here’s revenge, nothing more. Petty, cruel, designed to hurt and humiliate. 

Czar’s fists clench as the surrounding prisoners take up the cry. “C’mon then! Fuck him already! What’cha waitin’ for?” They’re baying jackals hungry for blood, egged on by Vay’s illicit condoning. He’s given them license to act in a way they never would if left to face Czar solo. Said corpsman’s smirk is hidden behind his visor, as he pins Peter tight to his chest plate. 

“Do it,” he says. Then, at Czar’s twisting scowl – “Even the lowest ranking guard trumps the highest ranking prisoner. You will do as I say – or I see how much voltage the boy’s body can take, then call in the other guards so we can show these fools what happens to those who wrong us.” Czar still says nothing, standing tall and stoic as a monolith. Vay’s tone informs all listeners of his sneer; he sizes up the biggest, baddest boss of the prison and declares his powers negligible. “One last chance, tough guy. You give him a nice hard fucking here, in front of everyone. Or we do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Sup, bitches. Hope y'all enjoyed. Drop me a comment; tell me what you thought!**


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **I finally finished this behemoth! So today is double chapter day. You guys will probably be grateful, after you see the cliffhanger I've left this chapter on... ;)**

Peter tries to look away. But the guard holds his chin steady, brandishing the stun baton in his peripherals. “Don’t shut your eyes,” he singsongs.

And so Peter watches. He watches as Yondu’s dragged off the table. He’s tipped forwards at the waist, pushed into a high downwards-dog. Czar grabs his arms before he can balance himself and tugs them up and back, twisting his shoulderblades to the point of pain – although Yondu, high on his drug, only purrs and arches into the stretch. He winds up with his legs straight, bent forwards, balancing on his tiptoes. Czar uses his arms as reins. He reels his compact blue body in until it splits over the very tip of his cock. 

And then… And then… 

*** 

_Okay,_ Yondu thinks to himself. _So this is how I die. Fuckin’ ripped apart by a Badoon’s giant dick._ Not the most glamorous end. But right now, being slowly impaled, feeling every well-lubed inch squelching through him, Yondu doesn’t much care. All he can think about is that this is happening. It’s actually _happening_. 

It barely hurts beyond a dull, pleasant stretch. Hell, if he were the sorta guy who enjoyed taking cock he’d be euphoric. Whatever was in that vial of the Hawker’s, it’s done its trick. Shame Quill’s watching, else Yondu might actually enjoy himself. 

He has to find somewhere else to look, someone else to focus on. But Czar’s positioned him so he’s facing Peter – an unthinking cruelty that probably has more to do with showing off to Vay than torturing Yondu. Yondu refuses to let his head drop and dangle heavy between his shoulders, refuses to allow his tongue to loll as it wants to when the glide of Czar’s cock reaches its terminus and he feels a broad groin tacking to his ass. 

It’s in. Fuck, it’s all the way in. 

Yondu’s almost delirious. His wrists strain weakly in Czar’s grip, and he rocks up on his toes, arching his back in silent demand. The response is instantaneous. Czar drops his arms, letting Yondu’s torso flop forwards – then jar painfully on the thick erection that’s been fed into his belly. “A-ah…” 

It can’t be pleasant for the big guy either, having Yondu stretching his Pride and Joy in the opposite direction to that which it wants to go. But it’s worse for Yondu. He’s overstuffed to the point of rupture. Fear of busting his innards makes him freeze, clamping his abdominal muscles with control he hadn’t realized he still had. His arms, now untethered, clutch his belly as he holds the uncomfortable pose: tilted into a straight-backed bow and teetering from toe to toe. 

He can feel Czar’s cock. Not just inside. His stomach bulges obscenely, skin stretching like blue elastic, and when Yondu presses on the head, lodged in his abdomen, in a futile attempt at pushing him back out, Czar makes a rumbling purr. His hips slap Yondu’s sore ass, shunting him off-balance. But there’s no danger of Yondu slithering off him. He’s stretched so wide it’ll be a miracle if Czar even manages to thrust, and if he did it’d only take one overhard push to break him. 

The sensation of fragility is at once so foreign, terrifying, and exquisitely arousing – although Yondu blames the latter on the drugs. But if it’s vulnerable Vay wants from him, it’s vulnerable he’s getting right now. Yondu hopes he savours every last minute. 

He certainly intends on it. 

Because really, when he thinks about it – although thinking’s near-beyond him now: his mental processes locked behind a wall of fog – that’s the only way out. If he wants to make it through this with any pride, he can’t let it look like… Like what Bug and Belly had attempted. He can’t fight and scream and claw, because then he’ll be held down and _taken._ At least this way he still has some control… 

Yondu doubts Quill will see it like that. But he can freak out over his part in this later. 

“C-c’mon then,” he stutters, dangling off Czar’s cock like a fleshy glove. “You forgotten how to use that thing?” 

In hindsight, that’s not the wisest thing to say. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he chants as Czar’s hips smack his ass. The earlier spanking haunts him now. He’s gonna have bruises on top of bruises – and not just on the outside. Each thrust is an internal punch; when Yondu glances down he sees the head of Czar’s cock distending his pouch. He doesn’t have the brainpower to muster nausea. Just helpless, debilitating horniness, and the yearning to have Czar fill him impossibly further. 

When he tosses his head back, teeth bared and saliva gathering in the corner of his mouth as he gasps, he finds Quill quivering and pallid in Vay’s harsh grip, face turned as far as it can get without disobeying the earlier order. And blame it on his lack of inhibitions, blame it on the engorged prick pounding away between his legs, blame it on the relentless squeeze of his prostate as Czar’s ten-odd inches grind by. But Yondu’s gotta say this now, because who knows when he’ll get his next chance? 

“M’sorry,” he tells Quill, choking on air. Czar claws hungrily at his hips, hefting him backwards and up to meet his own swinging pelvis. He withdraws with a noisy suck, having to reach between them to keep his cockhead wedged in Yondu’s fucked-loose entrance rather than popping wetly free. The crude squelch as he’s filled almost drowns Yondu’s next words, but he figures that doesn’t matter, as they’re just a continuation of his last ones. “M’so sorry, Quill, fuck – I – I –“ 

But then Czar hoists him off the floor entirely, sitting him on that vast shaft. It’s so long Yondu swears he can taste it on the back of his throat – or he would swear, if he could remember how to talk. 

Czar spends only a moment rearranging him. Yondu’s limbs are warm blue plasticine in his hands; the drug’s sapped his strength like a shot of morphine. Yondu winds up straddling him reverse-cowgirl, both of them still vertical. Czar’s thighs are pinched between his knees. They’re both facing in the same direction, a position that’d be improbable for anyone with a partner not of Czar’s massive size. Yondu’s bare feet scrape up and down the man’s flanks as he’s sawed over his meat, used like a toy; he clutches the arm across his chest for stability, gurgling a moan. 

If Quill’s not allowed to turn away, Yondu can at least shut his eyes and pretend they’re alone. He and Czar are sharing this moment in blissful privacy, with only each other’s expectations to fret over. Any moment Czar’s gonna spin him around, enquire if he can kiss him again in a voice husky from pleasure. He’ll stop using Yondu as a show-thing and let him close his legs – because horny though he might be, he’s sporting a severe case of whiskey-dick. 

Yondu could handle getting hard. If he could jerk himself off, show all these sick fuckers he’s having fun, at least he could pass himself off as a hedonist rather than an out-and-out bitch. But letting his soft blue member jiggle about everywhere? That’s plain embarrassing. 

Certainly, there’s plenty of giggling going on. Yondu’s eyes snap open mid-bounce; he scans the crowd, trying to locate the perpetrator so he’ll have a face to put to the sound of screams when he butchers them. He doesn’t find them. He spots the Snitch instead, watching with thin mouth and thinner eyes. When she catches his dopy gaze – difficult, it keeps sliding off her like water from a ship-sail, and as his vision’s gone duple he’s not quite sure which old lady he’s supposed to be focussing on – she shakes her head. The gesture’s almost regretful. And Yondu’s mind pushes forth a dreamlike vision of what things could’ve been like, if he’d only done as he’d sworn. 

Czar dead. Some other sad fuck in Yondu’s place, incriminated by the Snitch’s trusted pointer-finger. Himself a respected second-in-command – which of course, Yondu would never abide for long, but he can play the part when it’s necessary. 

Does he regret it? 

Yondu searches his remaining grey matter – he suspects the majority has been fucked out of him. No, he discovers, as Czar lifts him to split on the very tip of his cock, blue thighs flexing in his grip. He doesn’t. 

Czar tilts him rearwards. Yondu goes with the motion, collapsing against his chest. He whines as his rim stretches, the cockhead tugging it open so their audience are treated to the view of the lube-slicked passage within. The picture’s framed by his legs, held wide and trembling. When Czar comes, he loosens his hold on Yondu and allows him to slide down him to the root, prick churning at the seed deposited in his guts while more seeps from the join between their bodies. 

Thick white globs stain Yondu’s ass and legs. They smear as he settles. Yondu’s attuned to everything: from Czar’s breathy mutter of his name to the pulse of the veins that thread his thick green cock. The throbbing’s almost meditative. Soporific. 

“That’s it!” he hears someone holler. In his mind, it sounds like Belly – the man will be languishing in the infirmary for the foreseeable future, but Yondu’s not exactly in a state to appreciate that. “Fill the cumrag up!” 

“Make him cry!” demands another. 

Then a third: “Czar! Boss! Leave him here when yer done, willya? Give us a taste of blue…” 

Czar’s growl vibrates through Yondu. Next moment he’s turned, span on the limpening flesh. He whimpers as an inch slips free, along with a thick string of seed. He doesn’t want to be empty again. Not yet. It’s like the incident with Bug, Belly, and the plug from the day before. If Yondu has to choose one violation over the other, he chooses Czar and his toys over the prison denizens, every time. 

Czar, if the way he wedges Yondu’s jaws apart and plows his tongue between slack lips in a brutal claiming kiss, thinks much the same. 

“Mine,” he snarls. He lifts Yondu off his cock – ignoring his protesting hisses. He plugs him with a trio of fingers as soon as he’s free. Yondu’s made to stand on his own feet, light-headed and clinging to Czar’s arm for support. 

The weight of the badoon’s member is carved into his innards. The drug has yet to relinquish its hold on his system – doubtlessly, it won’t for several hours. Czar has half his hand buried inside him, digits careful not to rub his oversensitized prostate and milk him through a flaccid orgasm. 

Then, curiously, he pauses and licks his lips as if tasting something unfamiliar. 

His bemusement doesn’t last long. Getting a hold of himself, Czar turns to face their oppressor. 

“We’re done,” he says. The words are aimed over Yondu’s drooping head. He only remembers the identity of their recipient when Vay replies: 

“Good. Now get them out of my sight.” 

_Them?_ Yondu wants to ask. Then Quill’s thrown forwards, colliding with Yondu in an awkward tangle of limbs. Yondu catches him, steadies him, sets him on his feet. Czar can’t do it. One of his hands is out of commission, preventing Yondu from leaking messy jizz across the floor – for which Yondu’ll be grateful, once he’s back in his own head. But detached from himself as he might be, as Czar lifts his limp, fucked-out body, he still has the coherence – or lack thereof – to reiterate his earlier statement to Peter. 

“I’m sorry. Boy, m’sorry, m’sorry, I’m so damn sorry –“ 

“Shut up,” says Quill quietly. “It’s okay.” Now the order for him to watch has been revoked, he’s examining the floor panels as if there’s gold dust in the grouting. But – after a moment’s conflict – he rests his hand on Yondu’s forehead. That’s the only part of him that doesn’t seem to have been tainted by Czar’s sweat and seed. But it also fires Yondu’s loose-wired mind into a spiral of dimming recollections. The night he spent by Quill’s bedside while the Terran fought the fever jostles at the forefront. 

Yondu leans into that touch until Czar nudges Quill aside and begins his long-legged stride for the bathroom, uncaring of his own nudity or the slap of a wet, cum-stained cock on each thigh. He’s nodding before he reaches the door – which is the only reason why he doesn’t find the gazes of the Hawker and the Snitch odd, as they mutter to each other from the shade of an alcove at the hall’s edge. 

“ _That_ was yer ‘Plan B’? I thought ya said it’d work quick.” 

“Hey, this stuff’s best of the best. Have some faith.” 

The Snitch scoffs. “You promised me instant effects, should Udonta fail at killin’ him. I see none of ‘em.” 

“Patience.” The Hawker sighs, blubbery fingers massaging her chin. “I suspect he might’ve applied it wrong – but let’s wait a little longer before resorting to Plan C.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Tell me what you thoooouuuuuught**


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Whooops, multichapter day didn't happen, as I was dealing with shit in another fandom. Let's try again...**

Peter’s prevented from following them into the showerblock by Bela’s touch on his shoulder. She doesn’t order him to stay. Doesn’t tell him that _Yondu wouldn’t want you to see him like this_ , or that _Boss and his bitch need a moment alone._ She doesn’t need to. Peter’s walk trails to a stop. He stands still as Czar and Yondu move further away from him, still staring blankly at the floor.

“Guess we’re both pretty shit at protecting each other,” he says quietly. Bela has nothing against children swearing – doesn’t really see Quill as a _child_ anyway, given that he’s fifteen and starting to fill out. But there’s something in the viciousness behind those words, the soft, self-aimed barb that’s as furious as it’s harsh, that makes her chest clench. 

“Peter. Don’t blame yourself.” 

“Who else’s there to blame?” Peter sniffs, jerking his sleeve clumsily over his runny nose. “If it weren’t for me, he wouldn’t… He wouldn’t have to…” 

Bela’s beaky proboscis twitches in displeasure. “Don’t talk like that. Now sit with me here. I need to watch the door; prevent anyone interrupting them. And you need to stay with me. No wandering, Peter. Understand? Not today.” 

Peter doesn’t understand. He’s beginning to suspect that he doesn’t understand anything, that all of Yondu’s claims about him being a dumb little Terran hick far out of his depth are true. But he’s too tired to move even if he wanted to. Mentally worn to the bone. And so, as Bela takes up a stiff-backed stance before the barricade of the thick steam-room doors, he sits quietly in her shadow, closes his eyes, and waits for his captain to return. 

Bela, meanwhile, casts the Hawker and the Snitch a glare. “What are you two doing, skulking around?” 

“Nothing,” says the elder of the two after a long pause, during which they squint at each other in silent communication. “Waiting for our turn to wash.” She shudders. “Need one after witnessin’ that.” 

“Hm.” Bela doesn’t offer her opinion on the matter further. She looks to the middle-distance, core a solid bulwark between Peter, Yondu, Czar, and the eyes that had fed greedily on their humiliation. The rest of the throng is a motley mass. Most are still chuckling to themselves, relishing seeing Udonta, infamous scourge of the starways, brought so low. There’s several among them who look on the guards with a new nervous respect, and they give the riot-gear clad Vay and his brethren a wide berth. 

Others, less cautious, mime out the events of the last hour in a crude parody. They bend invisible partners over the nearest table and spank the air where their ass might hover, before pistoning their hips into that imaginary body like they’re drilling for oil. Already, Bela can see how the story will spread. It’s infected every occupant in this place, but time and retelling will only make it stronger. Like a virus corroding the cells it comes into contact with, each exaggerated swipe of the inmates’ hands across a fantasy pair of buttocks will erode what meagre shreds of Yondu’s reputation remain. 

And the guards… As soon as their shift rotates out, the news will be bared to the galaxy at large. It’ll be an open sore: others will pick at it, those fascinated by the legend of the Ravager admiral and those vying for his place. They’ll spin it out of all proportion, and before the end of the week there’ll be more than one trashy Xandarian tabloid reporting that Yondu Udonta – yes, _the_ Udonta – got fucked by half the prison. 

Bela shouldn’t care. She ought to know better; she’s been around long enough to know that all you get when you put your life on the line for another is disappointment and well-deserved mockery. But Bela also considers falsehoods to be a despicable abomination, and it somehow rankles that Yondu should be made to bear the brunt of cruel rumours, just so that the Warden might feel more secure in his armoured nest. 

She’s been by Czar’s side since the Badoon conquest of her homeworld. While his feelings for her never migrated beyond the expectations of a master to his servant, her people are raised with the creed that the strong rule the weak. Czar defeated her. His people eviscerated hers: tore out their bowels and stamped on their ashes. And thus Bela is his, as due his rights as warlord. 

Exposure to the cultural hodgepodge of the Xandarian Empire hasn’t mellowed her fervent beliefs. But it’s forced her to except that ranks of power can’t be so simply categorized into _strong_ and _otherwise_. 

Take Peter, for instance. The boy is weak. Anyone with optical sensory systems can determine that. He knows how to throw a punch – with a rollicking bar-brawler’s technique, honed from a childhood spent in the company of the roughest, toughest gang of hooligans this side of Betelgeuse. But he only boasts the proportionate feeble strength of a Terran to put behind it. If he’d been sent here alone, he wouldn’t have lasted a day. 

But while her demotion to the office of babysitter had stung at first, Bela now appreciates it – if only for how it’s opened her eyes. Because Peter, who’s watched the abuse of the person he cares about most in the galaxy and refused to be broken by it, is stronger than anyone gives him credit for. 

She knows that if she turns around, she won’t find him crying. 

She knows she’ll find him glaring at his shoes, forging his anger into something pragmatic and brilliant. 

She knows what he’s capable of, and she wishes him the best of luck. 

*** 

Yondu can hear them: the catcalls and the whoops as the entire scum-content of the galaxy play out their personal iterations of his torture. But he’s also high as a fucking kite, and doesn’t much care. 

Czar, judging by the tilt of his eyebrows, is more than a little perturbed by his smile. “What?” 

“Nothin’…” Yondu sags in his hold, entirely boneless, head rolling back over the solid muscular swoop of Czar’s shoulder to appraise the shower block upside down. “Jus’… thinkin’ how nice this is.” He’s slurring worse than before. Must be post-coital bliss or… something. Something Yondu can’t put a word to right now. 

Czar’s brows crimp further. “ _Nice?_ ” 

“Y’know.” Tired of conversation, Yondu wafts his hand sleepily through the air. “Not having to care about shit. It’s good. Feels… good.” The hands cupping him to Czar’s warm chest squeeze tight enough to bruise. Given one’s clutching his thighs, already swollen near-black from the rigorous spanking, this has Yondu shifting in mild discomfort. The churn of his mental processes are as fucked-out and lazy as his body. “H-hey. Yer hurtin’…” 

“You should care.” Czar’s husky reply is so out of character that Yondu cracks a laugh. He registers the forthright earnestness in his boss’s voice halfway through the guffaw, and gurgles to a stop. 

“You ain’t kiddin’ me? What the hell? Ya know what happens when you go soft in here.” 

“In where? The prison?” 

Yondu’s so languidly lethargic that he forgot to accompany the words with the requisite gesture. Not bothering to point, he snuggles lower in Czar’s grip and rests his ear over his ribcage, cheek smushing against the crag of a sculpted pectoral. Czar’s heartbeat pounds deep and solemn in his ears. “In here,” he repeats, quieter. “Can’t ever do that. Can’t let ‘em win. Can’t let ‘em… Let ‘em break you. Promise me you won’t.” 

Czar lays him on the cool tiles in lieu of providing an answer. Condensation feels like it’s gumming his ass to the porcelain – although that could be the frothy mixture of cum and lube spilling out of him. The thumb that smooths over his stubbled jaw retreats too fast for Yondu’s addled brain to compute. He’s exhausted. Aching in all the wrong places, still acclimatizing to the curious wetness of Czar’s leavings, where they’re smeared deep in his guts. His abdomen’s bulging from the load, his ass is beaten black and navy, and he can still taste the Hawker’s potion on his lips. 

That taste is transferred to Czar’s mouth, as the big guy squats besides him, still naked as the day he’d squeezed from a Badoon woman’s cunt, and hauls Yondu to his level so they can share a kiss. 

It’s around this point that things start to go wrong. 

The kiss lasts a solid minute before Czar’s tongue, which has until this moment been trailing softly over Yondu’s like a damp feather on sensitive skin, begins to move heavier, sluggish and clumsy. Those gentle, intimate motions dissolve into a spitty slur. Czar’s hand skids off Yondu’s jaw and slaps wet tile. 

Yondu blinks back to consciousness at the sound. His eyelids droop, tired beyond measure. To his surprise, he finds Czar to be in much the same state. “I know fucking me’s a workout,” he jokes, voice feebler to his ears than he’s ever heard it. Noses and chins clonk as he twists his head, encouraging Czar’s lax mouth into reciprocating. “But you ain’t old enough to have put out yer back.” 

When Czar doesn’t reply, Yondu kisses him again, slumping onto his lap. Czar collapses with the weight of a downed scotch pine. Moving at a snail’s pace, freezing every time his abused backside twinges, Yondu crawls up his body. He ignores the odd plasticity of Czar’s limbs in favour of dotting a dozen more kisses over his unresponsive tongue. 

“Hey,” he whispers, licking the spit of Czar’s lips for him. “Why you bein’ so quiet?” Czar, predictably, doesn’t answer. He does snap his teeth shut though, and if Yondu hadn’t been swift in extracting his tongue he might’ve lost it. “C’mon. I’mma have enough aches to process tomorrow without adding a bitten tongue to the list…” 

It’s only when he pulls back that he realizes the eyes on him aren’t lustful, aren’t even fond. They’re glacial with hatred. The expression registers before Yondu can put up his usual walls, lock himself in a fortress of solitude which no dumb sentiment can breach. And in that moment, it hurts worse than if he’d fallen on his own arrow. 

“Czar?” 

“What,” grits Czar, throat straining to expel the words, “have you done to me?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **WUH WOAH**


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **:yaaaawn:**

Numbness.

It’s all he can register. All he knows. Numb from the earlier fuck, which has overtaxed every nerve in his lower body. Numb from the frigid water cascading over his back, from where the guards who took Czar away kicked him under the spray to clean up, not wanting to touch him more than necessary, as if he was contagious. Numb with the knowledge that he’s killed him. 

Not purposefully, of course. Which is what makes this worse, because Yondu had been hoping that when the time came, he could do it on his own terms. At least that way he’d be prepared for the betrayal in Czar’s eyes. And he’d have done it quick, too. Czar’s treated him damn good, despite everything – and yeah, Yondu can admit it to himself as he curls on the tiles in a woodlouse-ball of sodden blue, water beating over his implant as he buries his head between his knees. He likes the guy. 

_Liked_ him. Czar might not be dead yet, his grip on consciousness slithering into non-responsive coma. But he’s as good as. 

If things had been up to Yondu, he’d have given Czar an end fitting to his reputation. An arrow through the heart, swift and sure. Not like this. This is worse than sticking a knife in a man’s back. Much worse, as Yondu’s not opposed to that action on principle. Poison. A slow, gruelling death. No one deserves that. 

It doesn’t take a genius to work out where that poison came from. Yondu stays slumped where he’s been kicked, ignoring the goosepimples prickling along his arms, ignoring the smear of water from where Czar had been bodily dragged to the far-off doors, too heavy for even a consignment of five guards to lift. He had glowered at Yondu the whole way. Or at least, until his eyelids drooped shut of their own accord. 

Now, as a pair of footsteps approach, Yondu doesn’t bother looking up. 

“Where’d you find something that’d act as an aphrodisiac for Centaurians and kill a Badoon?” he croaks. One of his visitors shifts her considerable girth from foot to foot, bare feet squelching over damp tile. 

“I’m the Hawker. I can get anything.” 

“Yeah. Except power. Not on yer own merit anyway. Damn bitch.” 

Growling, the Hawker lumbers forwards – but she’s held back by the Snitch’s withered hand, which skids on her meaty shoulder, dampened by condensation from the humid room. “Don’t tell us you’ve gone soft,” she sneers. “We only helped ya do what you was always plannin’ on doing. You oughta be grateful, boy. We stopped you from hesitatin’, we gave you this opportunity…” 

Yondu’s laugh cracks out of him like a gunshot. “Opportunity?” He lifts his head from the comforting enclave of knees and forearms, staring each of them in the eye. Neither shows regret. “Ya fuckin’ used me, y’know. If ya think I’m ever gonna fall into line like the rest of these goons, you got another think comin’.” He’s so irate that he doesn’t even consider the logical consequence of his words: that they’d cut their losses and butcher him here while he’s vulnerable, scarcely able to stand. “Both of you better watch yer backs. ‘Cause I’m gonna be gunnin’ for them. Might not have my arrow, but I can sure as fuck be a mean streak of shit. Yer gonna wish you never messed with me –“ 

The Hawker moves forwards again. Again, she’s prevented from – well, Yondu doesn’t know. Smothering him with her blubber? Wrapping fat hands around his neck and squeezing the life from him bit by bit? In this moment, he’s ready for it. Even tips his chin up, baring his throat in preparation. 

But the strangulation never occurs. “How about if we give ya a way out instead?” the Snitch asks. 

The Hawker seems more surprised than Yondu – who can’t muster much more than that rage-tinted, profound sense of loss, which eats through the stifling numbness like acid. “Why? It’s easier to gut him here, cut our losses. If ya don’t think he’s gonna come storming in here with his Ravagers the moment he’s out…” 

“And risk ‘em finding out how he got made the boss’s bitch? It’d only take one word from an insider, y’know. Rumours kill, Hawker. Never forget that.” The Snitch’s wrinkled currant-like eyes peer down at Yondu with the intelligence of a corvid, calculating and ruthless but not unplayful. “Well, Little Ravager? Do we have a deal? You and the boy leave this place and never return. You get to go back to yer life of high-space piracy and fly your galleons away from this quadrant, never to return. That way you don’t gotta worry about your prison-profession becoming news for the masses. Or about us – seein’ as we’re gonna become the biggest, nastiest flying fortress around. Alpha predator. So you’d better steer well clear of our territory.” 

She knows as well as he does that this whole shitty situation’s gonna become the talking point of the galaxy as soon as the guards retreat to their quarters tonight. They’ll tell their buddies who’ve been rotated back Xandar-side; those buddies will tell their buddies, then their bosses, then the goddam paparazzi, and Yondu’ll be as good as finished. 

The only way to salvage his reputation is to slaughter every soul in this place before the news has chance to spread. Best the dastardly duo remain unaware of that. 

“Doesn’t sound like much of a deal,” Yondu grits. “This quadrant’s Ravager-run, y’all know that. What’m I supposed to tell my men – that I fancy a holiday?” 

The Snitch’s smile turns grim. “If you care for that Terran as much as ya say, you’ll take this opportunity and thank us for it. Because the moment Czar’s monitors in the infirmary go offline, don’t think those who’ve been hungering for Quill won’t sink their teeth into his pretty pink Terran-flesh. You hear me?” 

She has a point. Damn smart biddy. The time limit for hatching an escape plan has swiftly compressed. Peter will be unprotected in a number of hours. And Yondu’s simultaneously scapegoat, victim, and murderer – the former two eradicate any admiration and deference earnt by his role in killing the prison’s top dog. Czar’s supporters will run him down and string him up. Those who’ve been hungering for Czar’s downfall will be too busy sneering at Yondu for spreading his legs in exchange for safety to consider helping. And none of them would give two shits about Peter anyway. 

…Peter, who’s currently in Bela’s custody. Czar’s nearest and dearest. Yondu needs to find ‘em, before Vay trumpets across the entire Kyln that Czar’s dying by his bitch’s blue hands. 

“How,” he growls, beginning the arduous climb to his feet. He ignores the hand the Snitch offers, ignores his nudity and the strings of Czar’s essence winding wetly down his thighs. The ache in his ass – from the spankings, as well as the deeper sensation of emptiness that gouges into his well-stretched viscera, air and cold water mingling with the cum inside him – amplifies once he’s upright. Every extremity blazes as the bloodflow returns, moving sluggish and chilled. But Yondu can take it. He steels himself to the pain, crossing his arms and squeezing his legs together in an effort to feel less open and vulnerable. “How do we get out?” 

The Snitch tells him. Yondu nods, lurches for the lockers, and pulls his jumpsuit over his freezing damp body without bothering to dry. 

*** 

Bela seems surprised to see him walking. Yondu emulates the sentiment. “Where’s Czar?” is the first thing she asks, one hand stroking Peter’s hair. They’d seen the Guards enter, and the Hawker and Snitch after them – any other nosy prisoners were put off by the presence of a half-dozen men in riot gear. “What happened in there?” 

Yondu can’t tell her. A part of him yearns to confess, to explain that it’s not his fault, that he was tricked. But he can’t be certain she’d believe him. And her claws rest so close to Quill’s jugular, Yondu ain’t taking the risk. “Talking to Vay an’ the others,” he lies. His jumpsuit dangles off him. Yondu feels like he’s shrunk, diminished, been fucked away to nothing. He doesn’t look at either of them as he says his next words: “Me an’ Petey are leaving.” 

“Leaving?” Bela raises her eyebrows, nostrils scrunching in disbelief. “I… I can’t let you, Yondu. You know Czar wouldn’t want…” 

“Czar’s cool with it. Guards said his punishment weren’t good enough. I’m gonna hang, and the brat with me, unless we get out. You gotta help us.” Falsehoods slide from his tongue, unctuous and smooth. Bela’s eyes bug – but she glances around at the looming guards who still stand sentinel on every walkway above them, and it’s clear that she believes him. She also notices how, while Yondu’s quiet voice has ensured nobody endowed with bog-standard hearing has been able to eavesdrop, the bulk of prisoners are still watching them, eager to witness more of the Ravager Admiral’s humiliation. Who knew what they’d be doing if she weren’t here? Her brawn stands between him and Quill, and those ravenous eyes. They’re right. They need her. 

“Well, shit,” she says. Yondu wholeheartedly agrees. 

Quill, who has yet to speak – and who Yondu has yet to acknowledge, whether out of shame or because he’s distracted by the danger of their situation – shifts from under her palm. He doesn’t say a word. Simply steps up to Yondu and wraps his arms around him, standing on his toes to tuck his head over Yondu’s shoulder. 

His stubble grazes his own. Boy’s growing up. Baby-faced he might be, but the Kyln’s aged him as it ages all unlucky sods who find a home between its solid walls. 

“Let’s go,” he whispers. “You and me. Let’s leave all of this behind.” 

Yondu’s arms come up awkwardly, returning the gesture with a terse pat to Peter’s heaving shoulderblades. Boy’s trembling. It’s not fear though – Yondu’s glad about that. The boy’s showing him, in his stupid sentimental Terran way, how relieved he is that Yondu ain’t broken. 

As much as Yondu detests it, right now that glimmer of sentiment is exactly what he needs. 

Yondu straightens. He holds himself higher, a little more solid on his feet. He’s intimately aware of his ass, which twinges with every scrape of scratchy uniform fabric; but with Peter leaning on him, depending on him, he can move past it. He can move past the sniggers and the stares from the other prisoners, and the cold blank masks of the Guards – who by now will know what he’s done, and are merely biding time to make it public knowledge. He can even move beyond the thought of Czar: languishing on a medbay pallet, waiting for death, believing the first person he’s allowed himself to care about since his wife is the instigator. 

Peter needs Yondu to be strong. That’s all that matters. 

*** 

The waterways loop the Kyln in a gargantuan sailor’s knot. They lead to the Guards’ quarters, the ship bay, and – more importantly – the baggage room, where prisoners’ possessions are bundled into crates until their sentence is complete. 

Yondu’s arrow will be there. And Quill’s walkthing. He guesses he can spare a minute to salvage it – if the brat does as he’s told and liberates Yondu’s poor chained Warbird, so they can make good their escape. For now though, Quill is occupied. He wraps himself around Bela’s sturdy middle, burying his face in her midriff while she hesitantly squeezes him in return, unaccustomed to shows of affection. They’ve re-entered the shower block, just the three of them. The Snitch, watching shrewdly through the bars of the nearest bannister, had caught a guard by the elbow and mumbled something to him – presumably that they aren’t to be disturbed. Sure enough, the few prisoners who’d tried to follow soon found themselves victim of shocksticks. 

“I’m gonna miss you,” Peter says. 

Yondu yawns. Bela had to pop the grill off the drain as Yondu’s too sore to do it himself – he prays he’ll be up for crawling about the Kyln’s internal maze. “C’mon, c’mon,” he says, tapping his foot. Bad decision. The motion sends electric shocks zinging through his aching pelvis, and he has to lean on the wall before he falls. “Les’ get this show on the road.” 

Bela reluctantly pries Quill away. “I should go find Czar,” she says, giving Quill’d ginger thatch one last rumple. “He may have new orders for me.” 

“Yeah, run along.” Yondu ignores Quill’s sniffles, as he’s gently extracted from Bela’s embrace. He clings to her hand like a barnacle, until Yondu loses patience and swats the back of his head. “Damn idiot boy. You wanna escape or not?” 

“Can’t we take Bela?” Quill asks. His wide, damp blue eyes gaze up at Yondu, soulful and limpid as a child begging for a puppy. Yondu’s got far too much sense to indulge him, as nice as it’d be to have someone like Bela around on the Ravager ship. He’ll miss her too, loath as he is to admit it. She’s got a knack for knowing when to shut up and savour the silence. He bets she’d get on well with Kraglin. 

“Lovely Miss Bela wouldn’t fit though the pipes,” he says instead, turning away. “It’s gonna be a tight fit for you an’ me. Anyway, you heard her – she’s gotta stay with Czar.” 

Quill’s expression firms. Whatever his attachment to Bela, it’s not enough for him to insist that Czar come along too. 

Neither of them realize that that’d be impossible anyway. 

Lovely Miss Bela tips him a nod and Peter a last rueful smile. It compounds everything a ‘goodbye’ can’t. She walks to the far edge of the bathroom, steam swirling around her and eclipsing the harsh edges of her form. Yondu nudges Peter to hop down the shaft before him. He spares a moment to glance over his shoulder. “Tell him…” he calls to Bela, voice echoing oddly off the billows as if he’s in a subterranean cave. “Tell him I’m sorry.” 

And if she assumes he’s apologizing for the whole Kogar incident, so be it. She’ll work it out soon enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **I'm half-asleep. Hopefully I haven't missed any spelling errors - or at least, not more than usual... Leave me comments to wake up to? x**


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **I promised myself I'd write five chapters of my next fic before uploading the last couple of this one, but my next fic's gonna have super-duper long chapters, sooooo...**

Yondu hops down the drain after Peter. Dark slick walls close above him. The closer they get to the Kyln’s core, the dodgier the gravity will become. What could be a horizontal channel one moment will become a vertical lift-shaft the next. They’ll have to go slow, go careful, clutch at every pipe and rod that lines their path.

Yondu’s route is planned out in his head. First stop the luggage room. Second the hospital wing. He’s got vengeance to wreak on a certain two inmates, and if he sees Czar to boot, well, that’ll be a bonus. Third stop is the most dangerous, but also the one Yondu’s most looking forwards to. Nothing can trump the sense of catharsis that’ll be brought about as he watches this damned hellhole engulf itself in spitting flame. 

Then? Next comes freedom. 

Yondu can hardly wait. 

“Pick up the pace, boy,” he grunts, smacking Quill’s foot – the nearest part of him – as the boy scrambles through the claustrophobic tunnel on all fours. “We ain’t got long. You know what you’re doing?” 

Quill nods. Then remembers Yondu can’t see it, given that they’re illuminated only by the patches of light streaming from the gridded drain covers in the shower room. He speaks aloud instead. “Get to docking bay. Fetch Warbird.” 

“Thas right. And I’m trusting ya to fly her out the Hangar without ramming her through any walls. Y’hear me? If she’s got so much as a _dent_ –“ 

“You’ll eat me?” 

“You got it. Now git.” Peter ups his velocity, shuffling through puddles of fusty shower water and worse. The loose jumpsuit-material buckles and creases around their knees. It’s sodden by now. By the time they emerge from this mildewed labyrinth, they’ll be blotchy rather than yellow. Yondu doesn’t care. Dirt’s good camouflage – and one more layer for the plasma bolts to sizzle through, once the mayhem starts. 

He and Quill make their way in silence, disturbed only by the occasional splat of drainwater from above. Thankfully, the bogs are linked to a different sewer network. Biological waste joins the scraps from the kitchen and the remains of any unfortunate prisoners who got on a bigger guy’s bad side, heaped into the furnaces that rumble in the Kyln’s rotten heart. But the prison’s internal aqueducts aren’t any less grimy. Limescale cakes the floor panels, hard green-white calcifications that bite into hands and shins. There’s a caustic smell in the air from the last time the Warden ordered a full flush of drain cleaner. Yondu prays that means another one’s not due for a while – otherwise by the time his and Peter’s bodies wash up, there’ll be nothing left but teeth and bone. 

Eventually, they navigate beyond the steam room. They pause before a fork, the wider atrium giving them enough space to shuffle around and face each other. Without the intermittent light being cast through the overhead grills, the tunnels yawn like gloomy mouths. Yondu’ll be fine – his implant throws out enough bioluminescence to highlight any rats before they can maul his face off. Peter, on the other hand… 

“Three major lefts, two major rights,” Yondu tells him, repeating the Snitch’s directions, which he’s been mouthing to himself for the past hour. “Ignore all them lil’ offshoot tunnels, or who knows where you’ll end up.” 

Peter shudders, halted a single crawl’s length away from where the thickest shadows begin. Boy’s probably imagining himself trapped here for eternity, lost in the catacombs of the Kyln’s drainage system, never to see the light of the stars again. “I, I’m not sure I can do this. I’ll be blind, in there.” 

Yondu snorts. “Then use yer other senses, idiot. You got ears, an’ you got a nose. Smell rot, there might be a rat’s nest ahead. Smell shit, you’re probably near a sewer pipe. Smell engine fuel, and you’ve hit jackpot. Jus’ remember to keep a hand on the wall. You ain’t going too near the bilges, so it shouldn’t be a problem – but a major gravity-flux might still getcha.” 

Peter doesn’t look especially reassured. “Yondu, I’m scared. I can’t do this.” 

It’s tempting to mock him. To laugh, all thirty of his silver and gold-capped teeth glinting in the dimming light, and boot Quill down his half of the fork regardless for the kid’s caterwauling. But that’ll only get ‘em both caught. And anyway, right now Yondu suspects reassurance might be the most pragmatic course of action – even if it goes against his very marrow. 

“Course ya can,” he says, reaching out to tap Peter between the eyes. “You’re Star-Lord.” 

Peter swallows hard. But his eyes, luminous circles that throw back the soft glow from Yondu’s implant, are brimming with fresh determination. “Yeah,” he says, grinning. “I am.” 

*** 

Whether the events of the past hour have sobered him up, or the Hawker’s drug-slash-poison’s just wearing off, Yondu’s reminded repeatedly that he’s spent a fair amount of today bouncing on a big green cock. He inches through the tunnels, grasping the walls where he can, as he crawls low into the Kyln’s gut. If Peter were with him, boy’d be humming by now. _Come and Get Your Love_ – or perhaps _Want You Back_. The refrains of both clot Yondu’s ears, and he finds his lips pursing in the shape of an impotent whistle. He clamps his jaw shut before it can escape. In part, because he doesn’t need the distraction. But mostly because he doesn’t want to alert the storeroom guards. 

The Snitch hadn’t told him where he’d find his arrow – only how to reach the docking bay. She probably hoped he’d cut his losses and scarper. But she’s no Centaurian. She doesn’t understand the intense relationship between warrior and weapon. This arrow – customized far beyond any of the Centaurian sticks he’d whittled from the Yaka-cliffs on his homeplanet – is unique, and (besides a certain Terran) the nearest and dearest thing to Yondu’s heart. 

It’s also equipped with a proximity transmitter, emulating the sensory receptivity of his shorn-off fin. If, for whatever reason, Yondu can’t summon it, he can at least find it when he’s lost. That’s what’s pulled him through the tunnels on a deeper descent than Peter, winding around the Kyln’s central structural strut. He’s already suffered two gravitational swings. Luckily, both times he didn’t have far to fall. 

The rooms this low in the Kyln are small and boxy, designed so that their guards can tumble around them with minimal injury. The pair Yondu’s assessing now are of typical stock: brawny, padded-out by body armour, with the sort of face that suggests it’s been the object of so many blows and punches that smacking it off the odd wall won’t do it any disfavours. 

They stand side by side in a hollowed dice. Each of the six walls is lined with magnetically clamped drawers. Prisoners’ items. Contraband. The stuff down here belongs to the serious inmates, the ones who ain’t expected to leave any time soon. The only reason it hasn’t been lobbed into the furnace is so that the guards can use it for bribery. 

Not that they’d ever risk giving Yondu his arrow back. The Warden’s probably tossed his and Peter’s crap into this pit while he finds some collector or another – who knows; maybe even the man himself? – who’d be interested in acquiring a relic of the most feared Admiral to ravage the star-systems of the Nova Quadrant. 

Yondu grins to himself, imagining the look on that bespectacled sod’s face when he finds out how his greed’s backfired. Not melting the arrow down for scrap the moment it passed into his hands was the worst mistake he’s ever going to make. 

*** 

Jayg’s picking his nose again. 

Jayg always picks his nose. 

Mara’s been partnered with him long enough – ever since his last partner got stuck in the boiler when the furnaces got turned back on, after the pair of them had been scrubbing them out on maintenance – to know that telling him to stop will only make him excavate that baggy nostril with greater ferocity. His last partner’s crispy end had come about, coincidentally, after Mara found the cheap porno he thought he’d lost stashed under his bed, and one of his socks – smelling ranker than usual – under his pillow. Jayg hasn’t pissed him off quite enough yet to earn the same treatment, but he’s coming close. 

On cue, Jayg’s broad, dome-topped finger emerges from his nasal passage. It comes slowly and stickily. He must’ve shoved it up far enough to tickle his frontal lobe. The nail glistens with mucus, which he assesses boredly through squinted, bilious eyes before sucking into his mouth. 

Mara, strives to show his lack of concern. Responding will only escalate the situation, as mother used to say. He cracks a wide yawn to this effect, head tipping so far back that he comes face to face with the man currently attempting to lever the drain cover off its hinges. 

The flip-flopping gravity mean that what was designated as the storage room’s floor is now its ceiling. Thus, when Mara shrieks and empties his plasma clip into the grate, melting its bars like butter while the man scurries out of range, half of the dripping steel-and-plasma residue falls on his face. 

It eats through skin. It eats through bone. Mara screams all the way, until his body crumples, smoking from the raw hole of his neck. 

“Huh,” Jayg says, spitting out the finger. He raises his own pistol. “C’mon out, whoever you are. Don’t make me call for back-up.” 

Yondu can’t have that. There’s still two vital stages of his plan left to execute – well, only one stage is _vital_. He doesn’t _have_ to swing by the infirmary. But he wants to. And what Yondu wants, he gets. 

He dives through the empty hole, just as the gravity tilts forty-five degrees to the left with a stomach-lurching jerk. Jayg, more accustomed to the constant revolutions, surfs it out like a tube-commuter. Yondu’s knees buckle from under him and he goes tumbling into one corner of a room – which just so happens to be the direction in which his implant is tugging him, as if someone’s gouged a fish-hook through the crystal and is reeling him sharply in. 

Jayg dithers over shooting. His eyes flick to his late partner. For a moment, Yondu wonders if he’s had the misfortune to stumble across another Vay, who’ll torture him to breaking point for the sake of a compatriot they never liked much in the first place. But then it seems to register that Yondu has no weapons, no conceivable way of putting up resistance. Jayg shunts his pistol into its holster, and thumbs the comm-dial. 

“You stay right there,” he warns, jabbing a finger that looks disturbingly shiny into Yondu’s face. His stretched nostrils quiver like the gooey strings of steel solidifying around the rim of the grate above. That’s gonna look interesting, when the gravity switches again. Like a diagonal stalactite. Yondu nods, feigning compliance. He waits until Jayg’s attention is torn between him and the comm, then snatches the handle of the locker he’s sitting on and wrenches it open. 

Connection. 

Wholeness. 

_Bliss_. 

Yondu lacks the external neural pathways Centaurians use to link their consciousness to biotic matter. That was all contained in his fin. But every time he uses his arrow, he savours a shard of what it must feel like to still be so attuned to the entirety of Anthos’s creation. 

Shame Yondu gave up on Anthos and his goody-goody ‘kill only what you need to subsist’ policies a long time ago. 

He whistles. The arrow darts into the nozzle of Jayg’s pistol, easy as a snake into its burrow. Yondu flares his crest. Radiation blazes ruby. The pistol overheats, vibrating with a mosquito-like whine, and Jayg hollers a cuss in Kronan before it explodes, taking most of his hand with it. 

Yondu drives the arrow up his nostril and into his brain before his translator can decrypt the words. Jayg’s voice cuts into a gurgle, yellow blood leaking from nostrils and eye sockets. Yondu gives a last shrill whistle, and the arrow bursts from the back of Jayg’s head. He crumples slowly to the floor. Then, when the floor becomes the wall, slithers wetly along it to land in a heap atop of his buddy. His snotty finger digs into the other guy’s cheek. 

There’s no time to celebrate the victory though. A glance at the man’s internally-wired comm device tells Yondu that the emergency beacons have been sent. It won’t take a minute for the nearest patrol crew to convene on this situation, and then the game’ll be up. He’ll be hunted through the prison like a fox fleeing hounds. 

Yondu grimly tugs his drawer from the wall and upends it, fishing about in the detritus for Peter’s walkthing and the few bobbly dashboard ornaments he can’t bear to leave behind. His eyes linger on his coat. He should forget it. Too bulky for pipe-travel; too recognizable… But right now, recognizable is what Yondu requires. He wants every damn sentient being in this place, prisoner and corpsman, to know who it was who put them in their graves. 

_Yeah,_ he thinks. He drops the walkthing into his pocket, after stuffing his arms into the sleeves, ignoring how the prison jumpsuit crinkles uncomfortably under the leather. _You’re Yondu goddam Udonta. Now let’s go make some noise._

*** 

Make some noise he does. 

His whistle is always eerily pure: piercing, high, hypnotic. The corpsmen turn to watch the wheeling arrow pierce their companions before they too fall to its fiery red stab. Yondu slaughters them in droves: wave after wave of riot-geared men, women, and others, who claw at the holes in their heads and chests in confusion before crumpling clumsily to earth. 

He can’t kill everyone solo. Not without risking a shot to the back. But that’s where stage two of his plan comes in – a stage two that was supposed to be relegated to stage three, so Yondu had ample time to drag out Belly and Bug’s slow demises. And, of course, give Czar his last goodbyes. Life never works out quite as expected, however, and Yondu’s adaptable enough not to mourn the cohesiveness of his plan. He’ll make it up as he goes along, like he always does. The endgame’s still the same. It involves him and Peter flying far away from a smouldering wreckage, Ravager flames on their shoulders where they belong. 

Grinning, Yondu hauls the nearest dead guard in front of him to act as a meat shield, as the crackle of electric truncheons fills the air with ozone. Controls for the Kyln’s emergency evacuation gate will be duplicated in the central watch tower and the Warden’s office. Yondu’s not going to attempt battling his way into the first of those fortresses. But – well, he knows where the latter is situated. It’d be a shame not to put that information to use. 

*** 

The wailing alarm brings back all sorts of nasty memories Yondu would be better off without. Bug and Belly pawing him over, their sweaty fingers gouging into his body, penetrating, stretching, asking if _lil’ Ravager wants to come…_

He tunes out the banshee-screech of sirens and focusses on the task at hand. 

The forcefield still simmers between him and the Warden, who rams the button for reinforcements under his desk to no avail. The guards outside the room are long-dead, and his emergency signal is drowned out by the howling klaxons and ringing bells that reverberate through the Kyln like the screams of the damned. Yondu hopes Quill’s reached the _Warbird_ okay. If the corpsmen are only on the lookout for a nasty blue arrow-bearing scumbag, there’s a fair chance one scrawny Terran will slip right on by. 

He struts into the room, the rotating red beacon over the doorway turning him into a featureless silhouette. His shadow falls square across the Warden’s sweating face. “You wanna turn this off?” he asks, gesturing to the wobbling air that threatens to singe his fingertips. “Or do I gotta go around it? Cause that’ll only make me more pissed off – an’ trust me, ya don’t want that.” 

The Warden’s lips tremble, but he has the coherence to shape them around words. “I do not acquiesce to the demands of prisoners –“ 

“Wrong answer.” 

Yondu fires his arrow through the wall, circumventing the buzzing hum of energy. It burrows from the opposite side, and dances tauntingly around the Warden for a drawn-out moment, the man shrinking away in futile avoidance. Then Yondu whistles again, and drills through his skull back-to-front. The arrowhead emerges through the left-hand lens of his spectacles, shards still flickering with dying camera feeds as they patter on the table and tinkle to the floor. 

Glassy rain. Yondu relishes the sound. 

“Awright,” he says to the corpse, rubbing his blood-stained blue palms. “Let’s play ‘find the button’.” 

*** 

Inside the prison, tensions are rising. There’s poisonous rumours floating from lip to ear, passed in an endless game of Chinese whispers. 

_Czar’s dead. So’s Udonta. Murdered by the guards, I heard_. 

_I thought they both escaped!_

_Nah, way I heard it, it was that Udonta who butchered the boss and ran. So who’s in charge now?_

The Snitch nods to the Hawker. This is their moment. They make their way to the highest gallery, the floor that had once been strictly for Czar’s use. It’s deserted, empty as the Mary Celeste. Dinner bowls still sit steaming on bannister rails, and abandoned personal items clutter the cells. Czar’s demise is neither confirmed nor denied, but his sentinels are wise enough to make themselves scarce. Their retreat stokes the brewing chaos further. The prisoners are jittery and unsettled, their whispers flammable fumes just awaiting a spark. 

If the Snitch and the Hawker want to cement their rule, they’re going to have to snuff any prospective sparks before they have a chance to burn. Unfortunately for them, they never get the chance. 

Next moment, the Kyln’s vast floodgate opens. 

It happens slowly yet unmistakably: an atonal grind that drowns out all sirens and alarm bells and screams. It’s like the rumble of an overhead jet, shaking the prisoners from their eardrums to their toes. Hinges unoiled since the last astral-millennium screech as their mechanics are forced into compliance. More than one prisoner bows over, clutching their ears in pain. The riot-gear clad guards, made hardy by their noise cancelling helmets, rush forwards to halt its passage. But the gate is unstoppable. It concertinas up beyond the reach of their scrabbling hands, a solid portcullis of titanium. Then it’s over. And – barring the klaxons, which have by now become white-noise – it’s silent. 

The corpsmen cease their jumping. They converse over their internal comms, a susurrus of panicked words. This is what is referred to in the Corpsmen Guidebook as ‘A Bad Situation’. 

A thousand bloodthirsty prisoners have just had freedom dangled before them. Their silence waits only for the first to dare to puncture it. And after that… After that, there’s no going back. 

“Shit,” says the Snitch. 

The nearest prisoner bodily hoists a guard into the air, holding him aloft for a second in a wrestler’s victory-pose. Then brings him down brutally over one knee. Vay shrieks as his spine moulds to the shape of his captive’s patella. He must feel each vertebrae as it pops from its socket, each disk as it slips. He doesn’t suffer the pain as long as he deserves – not in Yondu’s opinion, who’s observing matters through the unfractured lens of the Warden’s all-seeing glasses, perched on the desk with his feet propped on the corpse’s stiffening shoulders. Before Vay’s screams can devolve into sobs, the prisoner gives his neck similar treatment, then thunders out the exit flanked by a seething wall of inmates, butchering any guard that hasn’t already met the unfriendly end of Yondu’s arrow. 

Yondu nods to himself. That’ll keep the rest of the corpsmen entertained – hopefully enough so that they won’t notice how he’s turned off every shield generator in the place. Right now the Kyln’s entirely unprotected. One fat volley of M-ship fire to her underside, and her gaskets will blow like water from a whale. 

First though, Yondu’s due some vengeance of the slow, old-fashioned sort.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **SO I HEARD YOU LIKE ROARING RAMPAGES OF REVENGE**


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **We're so close to the end aaah**

Bug and Belly – there’s name plaques attached to the ends of their beds on the ward, but Yondu doesn’t care to read them – look pathetic. They’re half-mummified. Bug boasts an arm and a leg, each hoisted into the air and bound by bandages, while Belly has a concaved chest, lights guttering from the monitor by his side.

_Thank you, Bela_ , Yondu thinks. Glutted on power, he saunters over slow as a stalking snake. He perches at the foot of Belly’s bed. Belly, not able to raise his head lest he put further pressure on his half-crushed innards, waves a dopy hand in his general direction. Yondu’s gratified to note that it’s missing middle and index fingers. Skin grafts aren’t wasted on prisoners. “M-more opiates, nurse…” 

“I ain’t no nurse.” The medical staff have met the same demise as the corpsmen. Which ain’t exactly _fair_ , given they were probably rotated out here unwillingly rather than sent to the Kyln on detention detail. But in Yondu’s eyes, it’s a mercy. He’s made every kill clean and neat, a simmering, cauterized hole in the centre of each of their foreheads. It’ll spare them the horror of what’s to come. 

Belly isn’t due any such reprieve. “Wh-who is it then?” The man blinks blearily, craning over his wire-studded paunch. Yondu shuffles along the mattress until his blue face looms over Belly’s own. 

“Yer gonna regret you ever touched me,” he promises as recognition strikes and Belly’s pupils shrink to microscopic specks. Bug, on the pallet next door, is quietly attempting to extract himself from his harness of slings and casts. Yondu whistles, spearing him through the already-crushed fibula, and shoots him a middle finger without looking. “Oh no. You stay right there, boyo. I’m comin’ for you next.” 

Suffice to say, by the time he’s finished there’s not much left. Not that the pair are dead – oh no. Yondu has a mental catalogue of organs arranged by the length of time an average Xandarian can survive after they’ve been punctured by a red-hot radioactive arrow. Yondu leaves them spitting blood and stomach acid, stuffing the last severed sliver of testicle into Bug’s ear canal. Then he stands, swaggers to the pump-bottle of hand-cleanser – a bit redundant, as his attire is now more red than yellow – and rinses off, ignoring their waning sobs, as he looks around for Czar. 

The ward is as broad as it is long, a low-roofed square with beds laid out in rows, each separated from its neighbours by a forcefield that can be set to opaque or soundproof at the patient’s request. Most of the beds are unoccupied. That would change soon enough – if Yondu had any intention of leaving the Kyln intact. The few prisoners who aren’t doped off their heads shiver as he passes. Yondu looks at none of them, his gaze set on the cell at the far end of the column. The only one with its barriers currently set to solid white rather than flimsy-looking translucent gossamer. The one which, if the roster a nurse had tremblingly forked over before Yondu felled her with a neat blow through the head, belongs to Czar-Doon. 

*** 

“Heya Czar. Long time no –“ 

That’s as far as he gets before Bela slams him against the crackling forcefield, hand tight as an eagle’s talons around his throat. 

“Why are you here?” she snarls, as Yondu chokes and tugs at her wrist and fails to draw enough air to whistle. “To finish the job?” 

Yondu mouths helplessly at the air. Bela’s thumbs dug with brutal precision, squashing his trachea flat. She ignores the feet trying to brace themselves on her thighs, the claw of Yondu’s nails over her forearm, the pleading slant of his eyes. She holds him there until his eyes roll back – and, sneering, a little longer. 

Then: “Drop him.” 

The pressure releases. Oxygen, blessed oxygen, floods Yondu’s lungs. His alveoli are swollen, stuffing his entire chest cavity with soft blue tissue. He slides down the wall, ungainly and weak, the forcefield flickering white-grey from his weight. “Why?” he croaks, massaging at his throat. He winces when his thumb grazes the blossoming bruise, tasting blood in the back of his mouth. “Why’d ya tell her to stop?” 

Czar manages a glare. “Because I want you… to answer… her question.” 

Yondu’s vision swims back into focus. He disguises his shock behind a harsh, racking set of coughs. “Hey, boss. Ya look shit.” 

That’s an understatement. Czar’ rich, emerald green skintone his faded to pallid olive. His eyes are dull and misty, and his tongue, when it sweeps out to moisten his cracked lips, is grey and fat as a dead mollusc. “I’m dying,” he says. “What did you expect?” 

“Dying.” Yondu forces himself to sit of his own volition, rather than using the wall as a crutch. He arranges himself cross-legged on the floor, when Bela growls at his attempt to stand, and holds up his hands in universal pacification. Not that he couldn’t whistle through the both of ‘em here and now – but it’s the thought that counts. “Ya mean, for all the Nova’s fancy-shmancy tech, they ain’t got no way to save you?” 

He doesn’t sound devastated. Yondu grants himself that small victory. Because, while he’s been prepping for the worst ever since Czar went limp beneath him, glazing eyes immortalizing his fury as he spat those damning words – _what have you done to me?_ – a part of Yondu had hoped that the Hawker’s goop would fail. That the doctors would hook Czar up to some magic drip or another, and all would be well. 

He’s on a drip right now, in fact. The results aren’t especially miraculous – Czar looks worse than ever. Yondu nods to the offending baggie: a fat sachet of red liquid that drips into Czar’s veins in drams. “What’s that then? Ain’t that medicine?” 

“A temporary measure, nothing more.” Czar sighs, eyelids fluttering to a close. Both Bela and Yondu hold their breath, animosity momentarily forgotten, until he draws his next agonized lungful. “They prevent the paralytic from causing my arteries to clamp. However, my immune system will filter it out before the poison runs its course. This is only the slow linger before the inevitable.” 

He’s using his poncy accent again – his real accent. Yondu can’t begrudge him it. “I’m sorry,” he says. Czar must recognize the genuine note in his voice, because he gestures for Bela to stand down when Yondu shuffles forwards on his knees and she makes to restrain him. 

“Why, Little Ravager? You got what you wanted, like you always do in the end.” His words pour forth, long spiels of speech punctuated by high breaths, too fast and short for a man of Czar’s stature. “Isn’t this what you’ve been telling me since I first laid claim to you? That you would kill me, and everyone else in here?” He nods to Yondu’s flame, emblazoned against the ruddy claret of the captain’s coat. “Looks like you’re well on your way.” 

Yondu shakes his head. “I never meant this. The Hawker, she didn’t tell me what that potion was. I assumed… I thought it was for me…” It would take too long to explain. Yondu’s words tail off before Bela can snarl and beat them from him. 

“Lies!” she roars, stamping one mammoth foot. “Just as you lied to me! Don’t think I’ll forgive you, Udonta! You broke my trust – it would be my pleasure to break you in return!” Overhead, the red gloss of the warning lights falters, circuitry shaken loose by her rage. Rage that could turn into a rampage, unless Yondu does something. 

“Trust is stupid,” he says, refusing to cringe back against the wall as Bela storms towards him. “But I’ll tell you what ain’t – a deal.” 

Her hooked nose monopolizes his vision, drawing his gaze unerringly to the flinty grey eyes on either side. Eyes that look at him without compassion nor mercy. Yondu knows in that instant that there’ll be no more concern from her, no more of the gentleness she exhibited those numerous times she caught him after he staggered from Czar’s quarters late at night, or smiled at him across the breakfast table, or manipulated his body down a silicone shaft several sizes too ambitious. If it were up to her, she’d pulverize him now. “As if we would cut a deal with you, _Ravager_ –“ 

“Bela.” Czar’s croak has them both freezing. When they turn to him, they find him rolled onto one beefy shoulder, the muscle looking disturbingly lax and immobile, one hand weakly outstretched. “Stop. Let’s hear him out.” 

Yondu adjusts his collar with a grunt that belies how close he’d just come to whistling. “Issa simple question,” he says, forcing a grin. His salesman’s face is out-of-practice and doesn’t quite reach his eyes. But Yondu’s been cutting deals since he was booted from a small leafy planet in the Silver Spiral galaxy twenty-odd years ago. Even on the floor, ass smarting from its earlier assault and slathered in blood from every species in the Nova empire, he cuts an impressive figure. “Do you wanna die here, a prisoner of this sorry institution? Not a boss, not a top dog, just another body in the ruins? Or do ya wanna grab your medicine pouch up there, and come die among the stars?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Short one today. Tell me what you think? Love me? Hate me? Bit of both?**


	26. Chapter 26

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **I'm sorry... But at the same time, I'm really not. XD**

For once Yondu’s not the one being carried about like some goddam bride on the night of her deflowering. When he remarks on this to Czar, currently slung lengthways between Bela’s sturdy arms, he glares at him. That’s okay. Yondu can live without a comeback. Czar needs his energy to survive – just until Yondu can get him secure on the _Warbird_ , watching the dying Kyln from afar.

They nab the spacemasks from a deflated huddle of guards who’re long past caring. Yondu can’t remember whether it was him who killed them or the marauding prisoners – they’re flush with the marks of trampling, and he doesn’t have time to paw them over in search of an arrowhole. 

“C’mon,” he mutters to Bela. The sirens have clanked off, strained from overuse. The empty, blood and body-strewn tunnel still reverberates with the far-off hollers of rioting inmates. “Let’s split from this shithole.” 

*** 

The Kyln is beautiful, in a grotesque sort of way. That’s not as oxymoronic as it sounds: it’s a vast, expertly hewn gargoyle, a Frankenstein of glass and steel and warped hull plating. Getaway ships cluster its underside like grapes on a vine. Yondu’d better dispose of those first, in case any smart guards decide they’d be safer outside the Kyln’s fortified walls. What was once an incarceration unit for those convicted under Nova Corps law is now a prison for any still within it. As Yondu watches through his reflection in the _Warbird_ ’s portal window, a guard is hurled unceremoniously from an airlock. He doesn’t have time to exhale before he rapidly depressurizes. 

“Take us down,” he says to Bela, who has relieved Peter in the pilot’s seat. “You know what to do?” She nods. Guides them into a spiralling descent, dodging the cluttered debris drawn in towards the Kyln’s gravity from the neighbouring asteroid field. Only reason Yondu’s not flying ‘em himself is because the thought of sitting on a stiff plastic chair makes his lower half ache. And because he wants to spend these last few minutes with Czar, of course. 

The light from the Kyln’s central combustor illuminates their craft in rummy hues of gold. Yondu bestows a smile and a shoulder-pat on Peter, who’s come to stand besides him. Washed by amber light, each young soft bristle of stubble is given a shadow. Peter looks his age now, not like the naïve brat Yondu’d first accompanied into the Kyln’s delousing cells after a job-gone-wrong. 

“You did good, boy,” he says, because it’s true. Not one scuff on the _Warbird_ ’s exterior walls. Yondu should know – he insisted on flying all the away around her to check. “Who knows? Once we get back to the _Eclector_ , might see about gettin’ ya an M-ship of yer own…” 

Peter twists from the swelling image of the Kyln’s underside. “Are you…” he asks. Then cuts himself off. Yondu frowns. 

“What? Spit it out.” 

“Are you okay?” That idiot. Always more concerned for everyone else than he is for himself. Doesn’t he get that Yondu’s supposed to protect him, not the other way around? In lieu of an answer, Yondu grabs Peter in a chokehold and noogies him until Peter hollers and pounds his fist on the porthole for release. “You’re okay! You’re okay, dammit! Sheesh!” 

“That,” says Yondu, stepping back and clapping is hands, “is what’chu get for sentiment. Now boy – why don’t ya go sit with Bela and get her to show you how to blow a place as big as the Kyln to high smithereens?” 

Peter grins, eager to witness explosions as the next juvenile Terran. He pauses with one foot on the ladder though – boy hasn’t changed into his Ravager uniform yet, but he’s got his walkthing buds dangling around his neck, and looks like himself again. “Aren’t you coming?” 

“Nah.” Yondu effects an unconcerned shrug. “You run ahead, I’ll watch from here.” 

“Okay!” Scratch all that earlier pontification – Quill’s just as dumb as when they arrived. Or not. Because, as Yondu’s turning for the bunkroom where they’ve stashed Czar, Quill calls back over his shoulder: “Tell Czar I’m sorry he’s dying, but I still hate him!” 

Busted. Yondu winces. Then thinks _what the heck_. “Sure thing,” he says. 

*** 

Czar holds all the tragedy of tarnished magnificence. He’s laid out on Yondu’s bunk like a fallen colossus, an Ozymandias statue half buried by desert sand. When Yondu crosses to him, he finds the big guy’s head twisted so he too can feast his eyes on the obliteration of the Kyln. Yondu supposes that in his mind, it’s more the loss of the kingdom he’s sensing, rather than righteous liberation. Without its powerful shield generators grinding away in its underbelly, the Kyln is robbed of something spectacular, the awe it strikes into the minds of all self-respecting spacefaring scallywags diminished. Its vulnerability is exquisite. 

Yondu doesn’t take his eyes off that closing mechanical moon, even as he swings one leg over Czar and straddles him. He’s in full leathers again, and the sensation of large green hands gliding over his thighs is near-perfect. It’d be better if a certain spanking hadn’t made Yondu’s ass feel like it’s been stomped on by a gang of killer-heel wearing masseuses, but hey. He’ll make do. 

“So,” he purrs, nodding to the dwindling bag of medicine they’ve strung up to the porthole’s upper semicircle. The red liquid is still streaming into Czar’s veins, but there’s less than half a sachet left, and Yondu hadn’t bothered raiding the nurse’s supplies for more. If he were Czar, he wouldn’t want to drag this out more than necessary. “This stuff keeps your blood flowin’, right?” 

Czar manages a stiff nod. He’s watching Yondu closely, not without suspicion. But the animosity’s been stripped away, leaving only the residual cares of a man who knows he’s dying. Yondu leans close, unrasping his fly as he steals another poisonous kiss. The Hawker’s gunk might well still be languishing in his system – while its aphrodisiac effects have been muted by adrenaline from their escape, it’s still potent enough for Yondu to nurture the warmth in his groin into something hard and yearning. He reaches beneath him to free Czar from his papery hospital trousers. “Think ya can still get it up, then?” 

Bela fires. 

One sharp squeeze of trigger, one dip of the joystick. That’s all it takes. Silent fireworks saturate the view from the _Warbird_ ’s windows, and Yondu laughs like a hyena, high on glee, at the thought of all those who’d thought they beat him being vaporized. Czar doesn’t answer his question – at least, not verbally. But another part of him does, stiffening to the rough saw of Yondu’s leathers over it. Czar somehow musters the strength to arch up for a filthy grind. 

“Guess that’s a yes,” Yondu pants. 

*** 

The reservation is dark at night. 

The Nova-men, in their bug-eyed helmets and glowing suits, had offered them access to Xandarian technology: wireless lamps, water-cleansers, advanced medical kits. But the survivors of the Badoon assault on Alpha Centauri-IV had refused all. They preferred the darkness. That was when the dead came to say their last farewells, and it would be presumptuous of the Centaurians to deny them their rites for the sake of their own comfort. 

When a silhouette disjoins from the shadows at the edge of the forest, Czabe’s first thought is that it’s a ghost. She promptly screams, disrupting the fireflies who’d been peacefully nesting in the woven reeds of her hut roof. 

It’s a sharp, kittenish yelp, the sort of sound every adult can pinpoint to their own child. Sure enough, mommy jumps to her feet, abandoning the stew-dish she’s prepping for tonight’s feast. She sprints through the house, which is a simple round hut with a roof bored through at the top to let out firesmoke, dodging fat-wefted wall partition rugs. 

“Czabe!” 

She finds her daughter perched on the compound’s exterior fence rail. Her little turquoise face is turned away. Oola can see that she’s not alone. Her fists tighten, and she hefts her ladle. Her bow and arrow are by her bed, but she’ll fend this man off with whatever blunt instruments she has to hand if he tries to take her daughter. 

“Czabe! Who you talkin’ to, catkin?” 

Czabe swings her legs, twisting to face her. She’s smiling. And Oola smiles too in relief, when she realizes her companion is blue. Then abruptly shakes herself – because there was a time when blue meant _ally_ , when inter-tribal skirmishes were forgotten in favour of fending off the greater enemy. But nowadays, there’s many more races who share their skintone, and Oola trusts precisely none of them. 

Plus, whoever this man is, he doesn’t have a fin. He could be anything – by Hqaku, what if he’s Kree? 

“Mommy! This Yondu – he say he got news for ya.” 

Oola’s chest pinches tighter. Because she recognizes that name. Ain’t no Centaurian that doesn’t. One of their own, risen to infamy. He ain’t often the topic of conversation around the reservation communal well, but when he is, he divides opinions surer than a yaka-arrow through flesh. 

Yondu has no yaka on him now, none that she can sense. He holds open his coat – so strange, for one of their own to suffer anything other than a loincloth against their skin – and shows her the empty sheath. “Ain’t here to fight, darlin’,” he says with a toothy grin. “Just wanna talk. And yer cute lil’ munchkin here -” he pokes Czabe’s nose, who giggles like a twittering sparrow, “ –Told me you got stew cookin’.” 

Hospitality’s important, especially today. Every tribe boasted their personal litany of festivals and feast-nights back on Centauri-IV. While it’s difficult to synchronise their time to Nova calendars, Oola’s one of the few who still makes the effort. Tonight is the night of Hqaku, the great bird-god of the mountains. Oola, Czabe, and Czabe’s elder brother Ingu live with a bunch of heathens who believe in the gods of the earth rather than those of the sky. They’re not all that bad, even if Hqaku will never welcome them into his cloud-kingdom after they pass. But they certainly never ask for a place by Oola’s hearth, so they can sit and share stories and welcome in the god with the New Year. 

Czabe detaches herself from the railing and runs to cling to Oola’s long loincloth-tassels, eyes doey with pleading. “He can come, mommy? Hqaku likes new friends, yeah?” 

Oola lets her ladle droop. “Yeah,” she says, warily nodding at Yondu as he hops the perimeter fence. “I guess.” 

Her fingers brush the stunted shrivel of Czabe’s crest. Badoon and Centaurian mix, but sometimes with better results than others. Her Ingu wouldn’t show a tint of green to his skin if you saw him under marshlight, and his fin wafts high above his head as a warrior’s should. If it weren’t for his size – a veritable giant by Centaurian standards – you’d never know of his mixed blood. Czabe, with her muted colouring and olive eyes, stands out somewhat more. The villagers go out of their way not to shun her, guessing the unfortunate circumstances of her birth. But forced kindness is forced nonetheless. A reminder of their occupation, she’s still an outcast and always will be. As a result she treats friendships as if they’re more precious than jewels. 

Right now, she’s staring at Yondu like he’s Hqaku’s damn gift to mankind. Oola ain’t so easy to sway. 

Man stands still under her untrusting gaze. He ain’t from her tribe, that’s for sure. He’s suffered to have a crystal wedge hewn into his skull, and metal jangles from his ears and shines in his motley grin. That’s something no Hqaku devotee would allow. But whether he’s Zatoan, Ignoki or T’chagan, he’s welcome under their roof, if only for tonight. 

“What’chu waitin’ on, mister?” she asks as she parts the carpet-drapes that substitute a door. She hefts Czabe up on one hip and leads the way. “C’mon inside.” 

Yondu lingers a moment, fingering the rug’s plaited tasselling with something that looks like nostalgia. Then he nods, and follows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **That's all, folks.**

**Author's Note:**

> **Comments are my lifeblood and motivation.**


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